*  book  card 

41* 

Z  Please  keep  this  cord  in 
5  book  pocket 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINA 


ENDOWED  BY  THE 
DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROPIC 
SOCIETIES 


PRlt525 
.035 


*> 


> 


This  book  is  due  at  the  LOUIS  R.  WILSON  LIBRARY  on  the 
last  date  stamped  under  “Date  Due.”  If  not  on  hold  it  may  be 
renewed  by  bringing  it  to  the  library. 

DATE 

DUE  „ 

RET. 

RFT 

DUE 

*■ 

1 

form  r:o.  5f3 

«• 


/,  ■ 


M 


O'.. . 


•S-ifc' 


N. 


'A- 

'i  i 


'.  V 


I*  ‘ 


*.•  c  ’}T 


•1'^ 


V 

J. 


'y:'< 

‘  {4.'‘ 


* 

•  ^ 


*f 


i 


r-^-y  , 


■ 

V 


>) 


A 


H 


v‘  .•  ' 

,  .  "  » 


r 


?  V  **-- 


■4> 


< 


.•f/ 


■  'H^ 


} 


t 


I' 


. :% 


k 


r  ' 


■1  ■ 


‘i- 


'W. 


=i 


'  ' 

.v*f  '  I 

►  * 


V 


4 


A 


■lO' 


FEW  DAYS  IN  ATHENS. 

BEING 


THE  TRANSLATION 

OF 

A  GREEK  MANUSCRIPT 

DISCOVERED  IN  HERCULANEUM. 

BY 


FRANCES  WRIGHT, 

AUTHOR  OF  “VIEWS  OP  SOCIETY  AND  MANNERS  IN  AMERICA.” 


- joining  bliss  to  virtue,  the  glad  ease 

Of  Epicurus,  seldom  understood.” 


Thomson’s  Liberty. 


BHPUBUSHED  FROM  THE  OBIGINAi  LONDON  EDITION. 


NEW  YORK. 

PETER  ECKLER,  PUBRISHER, 

35  FULTON  STREET. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2020  with  funding  from 
University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


https://archive.org/details/fewdaysinathensb00wrig_0 


TO 


JEREMY  BENTHAM, 

AS  A  TESTIMONY 
OF 

HER  ADMIRATION  OF  HIS  ENLIGHTENED  SENTIMENTS, 

USEFUL  LABORS, 

AND  ACTIVE  PHILANTHROPY, 

AND  OF 

HER  GRATITUDE  FOR  HIS  FRIENDSHIP, 

THIS  WORK 


IS 

RESPECTFULLY  AND  AFFECTIONATELY 
INSCRIBED  BY 


FRANCES  WRIGHT. 


Lo7idon.,  March  i2thy  1822. 


541257 


TO  THE  READER. 


^r'HAT  I  may  not  obtain  credit  for  more  learning 
J-  than  I  possess,  I  beg  to  acknowledge  the  assistance 
I  have  received  in  my  version  of  the  curious  relict  of 
antiquity  now  offered  to  the  public  from  the  beautiful 
Italian  MSS.  of  the  erudite  Professor  of  Greek  in  the 
university  of  *  *  *  *.  I  hesitate  to  designate  more 
clearly  the  illustrious  Hellenist  whose  labors  have 
brought  to  light  this  curious  fragment.  Since  the  estab¬ 
lishment  of  the  saintly  domination  of  the  Vandals  through¬ 
out  the  territories  of  the  rebellious  and  heterodox  Italy, 
and  particularly  in  consequence  of  the  ordonnance  of  his 
most  orthodox,  most  legitimate,  and  most  Austrian 
Majesty,  bearing  that  his  dominions  being  in  want  of 
good  subjects,  his  colleges  are  forbidden  to  send  forth 
good  scholars,  *  it  has  become  necessary  for  the  gowns¬ 
men  of  the  classic  peninsula  to  banish  all  profane 
learning  from  their  lectures  and  their  libraries,  and  to 
evince  a  holy  abhorrence  of  the  sciences  and  arts  which 
they  erst  professed.  The  list  of  the  class  books  now 
employed  in  the  transalpine  schools  is  exceedingly  curi¬ 
ous  ;  I  regret  that  I  have  mislaid  the  one  lately  supplied 
to  me  by  an  illustrious  Italian  exile.  My  memory  recalls 
to  me  only  that  in  the  school  of  rhetoric,  the  orations  of 
Cicero  are  superseded  by  those  of  the  Marquis  of 
Londonderry,  and  the  philippics  of  Demosthenes  by 
those  of  M.  de  Peyronnet  ;  that  the  professors  of  history 
have  banished  the  decades  of  Livy  for  the  martyrs  of 
Mons.  de  Chateaubriand  ;  and  that  the  students  of  Greek, 
in  place  of  the  Odes  of  Pindar,  and  the  retreat  of  the 
ten  thousand  from  Cunaxe,  construe  the  hexameters  of 
the  English  Laureate,  and  the  advance  of  Louis  the 

*  Je  ne  veux  pas  de  savans  dans  mes  etats,  je  veux  de  dons  sujets,  was 
the  dictum  of  the  Austrian  Autocrat  to  au  Italian  Professor. 

V 


vi 


Zo  tbe  IReaber^ 


XVIII.  upon  Ghent.  In  this  state  of  the  Italian  world 
of  letters,  it  is  not  surprising  that  the  scholar,  to  whose 
perseverance,  ingenuity,  and  learning  the  public  are  in¬ 
debted  for  the  following  fragment,  should  object  to  lay 
claim  to  the  honor  which  is  his  due. 

The  original  MS.  fell  into  the  hands  of  my  erudite 
correspondent  in  the  autumn  of  the  year  of  1817.  From 
that  period  until  the  commencement  of  last  winter,  all 
his  leisure  hours  were  devoted  to  the  arduous  task  of 
unrolling  the  leaves,  and  deciphering  the  half-defaced 
characters.  The  imperfect  condition  of  the  MS.  soon 
obliged  him  to  forego  his  first  intention  of  transcribing 
the  original  Greek  ;  he  had  recourse,  therefore,  to  an 
Italian  version,  supplying  the  chasms,  consisting  some¬ 
times  of  a  word,  sometimes  of  a  line,  and  occasionally  of 
a  phrase,  with  a  careful  and  laborious  study  of  the  con¬ 
text.  While  this  version  was  printing  in  Florence,  a 
MS.  a  copy  was  transmitted  to  me  in  Paris,  with  a 
request  that  I  would  forthwith  see  it  translated  into  the 
English  and  French  languages.  The  former  version  I 
undertook  myself,  and  can  assure  the  reader,  that  it 
possesses  the  merit  of  fidelity.  The  first  erudite  transla¬ 
tor  has  not  conceived  it  necessary  to  encumber  the  vol¬ 
ume  with  marginal  notes  ;  nor  have  I  found  either  the 
inclination  or  the  ability  to  supply  them.  Those  who 
should  wish  to  refer  to  the  allusions  scattered  through  the 
old  classics  to  the  characters  and  systems  here  treated  of, 
will  find  much  assistance  from  the  marginal  authorities 
of  the  eloquent  and  ingenious  Bayle. 

I  have  only  to  add,  that  the  present  volume  comprises 
little  more  than  a  third  of  the  original  MS.;  it  will  be 
sufficient,  however  to  enable  the  public  to  form  an 
estimate  of  the  probable  value  of  the  whole. 

Frances  Wright. 


A  FEW  DAYS  IN  ATHENS. 


CHAPTER  I. 


!  monstrous  !  cried  the  young  Theon,  as  he 
^  came  from  the  portico  of  Zeno:  “Ye  Gods! 
and  will  ye  suffer  your  names  to  be  thus  blasphemed? 
How  do  ye  not  strike  with  thunder  the  actor  and  teacher 
of  such  enormities  !  What !  will  ye  suffer  our  youth,  and 
the  youth  of  after  ages,  to  be  seduced  by  this  shameless 
Gargettian  ?  Shall  the  Stoic  portico  be  forsaken  for  the 
garden  of  Epicurus  ?  Minerva,  shield  thy  city  !  Shut 
the  ears  of  thy  sons  against  the  voice  of  this  deceiver  ! 

Thus  did  Theon  give  vent  to  the  indignation  which 
the  words  of  Timocrates  had  worked  up  within  him. 
Tiniocrates  had  been  a  disciple  of  the  new  school  ;  but, 
quarrelling  with  his  master,  had  fled  to  the  followers  of 
Zeno  ;  and  to  make  the  greater  merit  of  his  apostacy, 
and  better  to  gain  the  hearts  of  his  new  friend,  poured 
forth  daily  execrations  on  his  former  teacher,  painting 
him  and  his  disciples  in  the  blackest  colors  of  deformity  ; 
revealing,  with  a  countenance  distorted  as  with  horror, 
and  a  voice  hurried  and  suppressed  as  from  the  agonies 
of  dreadful  recollections,  the  secrets  of  midnight  orgies, 
where  in  the  midst  of  his  pupils,  the  philosopher  of 
Gargettium  officiated  as  master  of  the  cursed  ceremo¬ 
nies  of  riot  and  impiety. 


7 


8 


H  ifew  in  Htbens* 


Full  of  these  nocturnal  horrors,  the  young  Theon 
traversed  with  hasty  steps  the  streets  of  Athens,  and 
issuing  from  the  city,  without  perceiving  that  he  did  so, 
took  the  road  to  the  Piraeus.  The  noise  of  the  harbor 
roused  him  to  recollection,  and  feeling  it  out  of  tune 
with  his  thoughts,  he  turned  up  to  the  more  peaceful 
banks  of  Cephisus,  and,  seating  himself  on  the  stump 
of  the  withered  olive,  his  feet  almost  washed  by  the 
water,  he  fell  back  again  into  his  reverie.  How  long  he 
had  sat,  he  knew  not  when  the  sound  of  gently  approach¬ 
ing  footsteps  once  more  recalled  him.  He  turned  his 
head,  and  after  a  Start  and  gaze  of  astonishment,  bent 
with  veneration  to  the  figure  before  him. 

It  was  of  the  middle  size,  and  robed  in  white,  pure  as 
the  vestments  of  the  Pythia.  The  shape,  the  attitude, 
the  foldings  of  the  garment,  was  such  as  the  chisel  of 
Phidias  would  have  given  to  the  God  of  Elocution. 
The  head  accorded  with  the  rest  of  the  figure  ;  it  sat 
upon  the  shoulders  with  a  grace  that  a  painter  would 
have  paused  to  contemplate  ;  elevated,  yet  somewhat 
inclining  forward,  as  if  habituated  gently  to  seek  and 
benevolently  to  yield  attention.  The  face  a  poet  would 
have  gazed  upon,  and  thought  he  beheld  in  it  one  of 
the  images  of  his  fancy  embodied.  The  features  were 
not  cast  for  the  statuary  ;  they  were  noble,  but  not 
regular.  Wisdom  beamed  mildly  from  the  eye,  and 
candor  was  on  the  broad  forehead  ;  the  mouth  reposed 
in  a  soft,  almost  imperceptible  smile,  that  did  not  curl 
the  lips  or  disturb  the  cheeks,  and  was  seen  only  in  the 
serene  and  holy  benignity  that  shone  over  the  whole 
physiognomy  ;  it  was  a  gleam  of  sunshine  sleeping  on  a 
lucid  lake.  The  first  lines  of  age  were  traced  on  the 
brow  and  round  the  chin,  but  so  gently  as  to  mellow 
rather  than  deepen  expression  ;  the  hair  indeed  seemed 


H  JFew  H)aps  in  Htbens* 


9 


prematurely  touched  by  time,  for  it  was  of  a  pure  silver, 
thrown  back  from  the  forehead,  and  fringing  the  throat 
behind  with  short  curls.  He  received  benignly  the 
salutation  of  the  youth,  and  gently  with  his  hand 
returning  it,  —  “Let  me  not  break  your  meditation  ; 
I  would  rather  share  than  disturb  them.*^  If  the 
stranger’s  appearance  had  enchanted  Theon,  his  voice 
did  now  more  so  ;  never  had  a  sound  so  sweet,  so 
musical  struck  upon  his  ear. 

“Surely  I  behold  and  hear  a  divinity!”  he  cried, 
stepping  backwards,  and  half  stooping  his  knee  with 
veneration. 

“From  the  groves  of  the  academy,  I  see,”  said  the 
sage,  advancing  and  laying  his  hand  on  the  youth’s 
shoulder. 

Theon  looked  up  with  a  modest  blush,  and,  en¬ 
couraged  by  the  sweet  aspect  of  the  sage,  replied,  “  No  ; 
from  the  portico.  ’  ’ 

“Ah  1  I  had  not  thought  Zeno  could  send  forth  such 
a  dreamer.  You  are  in  a  good  school,”  he  continued, 
observing  the  youth  confused  by  his  remark,  “a  school 
of  real  virtue  ;  and  if  I  read  faces  well,  as  I  think  I  do, 

I  see  a  pupil  that  will  not  disgrace  its  doctrines.” 

Theon’s  spirit  returned  ;  the  stranger  had  that  look, 
and  voice  and  manner,  which  instantly  gave  security 
to  the  timid,  and  draw  love  from  the  feeling  heart.  “  If 
you  be  man,  you  exert  more  than  human  influence  over 
the  souls  of  your  fellows.  I  have  seen  you  but  one 
moment,  and  that  moment  has  laid  me  at  your  feet.” 

“Not  quite  so  low,  I  hope,”  returned  the  sage,  with 
a  smile  ;  “I  had  always  rather  be  the  companion  than 
the  master.” 

“  Either,  both,”  said  the  eager  youth,  and,  seizing 
the  half  extended  hand  of  the  sage,  pressed  it  respect¬ 
fully  to  his  lips. 


lO 


H  jfew  H)aps  in  Htbens* 


“You  are  an  enthusiast,  I  see.  Beware  my  young 
friend  !  such  as  you  must  be  the  best  or  the  worst  of 
men.” 

“Then,  had  I  you  for  a  guide,  I  should  be  the  best.” 

“What  !  do  you,  a  stoic,  ask  a  guide  ? ” 

“  I,  a  stoic  !  Oh  !  would  I  were  !  I  yet  stand  but  on 
the  threshold  of  the  temple.  ’  ’ 

“  But,  standing  there,  you  have  at  least  looked  within 
and  seen  the  glories,  and  will  not  that  encourage  you  to 
advance  ?  Who  that  hath  seen  virtue  doth  not  love  her, 
and  pant  after  her  possession  ?  ’  ’ 

“  True,  true  :  I  have  seen  virtue  in  her  noblest  form — 
alas  !  so  noble,  that  my  eyes  have  been  dazzled  by  the 
contemplation.  I  have  looked  upon  Zeno  with  admira¬ 
tion  and  despair.” 

“Team  rather  to  look  with  love.  He  who  but 
admires  virtue,  yields  her  but  half  her  due.  She  asks 
to  be  approached,  to  be  embraced  ;  not  with  fear,  but 
with  confidence  ;  not  with  awe,  but  with  rapture.” 

“Yet  who  can  gaze  on  Zeno,  and  ever  hope  to  rival 
him  ?  ” 

“You,  my  young  friend:  Why  should  you  not? 
You  have  innocence  ;  you  have  sensibility  ;  you  have 
enthusiasm ;  you  have  ambition.  With  what  better 
promise  could  Zeno  begin  his  career.  Courage  !  courage  ! 
my  son  !  ”  stopping,  for  they  had  insensibly  walked  to¬ 
wards  the  city  during  the  dialogue,  and  laying  his  hand 
on  Theon’s  head,  “  we  want  but  the  will  to  be  as  great 
as  Zeno.” 

Theon  had  drawn  his  breath  for  a  sigh,  but  this  action 
and  the  look  that  accompanied  it,  changed  the  sight  to  a 
smile. 

“  You  would  make  me  vain.” 

“No;  but  I  would  make  you  confident.  Without 


H  ffew  Dai^s  in  Htbens* 


II 


confidence  Homer  had  never  written  his  Iliad.  No,  nor 
would  Zeno  now  be  worshipped  in  his  portico.’’ 

“Do  you  then  think  confidence  would  make  all  men 
Homers  and  Zenos  ?  ’  ’ 

“Not  all  ;  but  a  good  many.  I  believe  thousands  to 
have  the  seeds  of  excellence  in  them,  who  never  discover 
the  possession.  But  we  were  not  speaking  of  poetry 
and  philosophy,  only  of  virtue  :  all  men  certainly  cannot 
be  philosophers  or  poets,  but  all  men  may  be  virtuous.” 

“I  believe,”  returned  the  youth,  with  a  modest  blush, 
“if  I  might  walk  with  you  each  day  on  the  borders  of 
Cephisus,  I  should  sometimes  play  truant  at  the  portico.” 

“Ye  gods  forbid,”  exclaimed  the  sage,  playfully, 
“that  I  should  steal  a  proselyte  !  From  Zeno  too  ?  It 
might  cost  me  dear.  What  are  you  thinking  of?”  he 
resumed,  after  a  pause. 

“I  was  thinking,”  replied  Theon,  “what  a  loss  for 
man  that  you  are  not  teacher  in  the  garden,  in  place  of 
the  son  of  Neocles.” 

“Do  you  know  the  son  of  Neocles  ?  ”  asked  the  sage. 

“  The  gods  forbid  that  I  should  know  him  more  than 
by  report !  No,  venerable  stranger  ;  wrong  me  not  so 
much  as  to  think  I  have  entered  the  gerden  of  Epicurus. 
It  is  not  long  that  I  have  been  in  Athens  ;  but  I  hope, 
if  I  should  henceforth  live  my  life  here,  I  shall  never  be 
seduced  by  the  advocate  of  vice.” 

“  From  my  soul  I  hope  the  same.  But  you  say  you 
have  not  long  been  in  Athens.  You  are  come  here  to 
study  philosophy.” 

“Yes;  my  father  was  a  scholar  of  Xenocrates  ;  but 
when  he  sent  me  from  Corinth,  he  bade  me  attend  all 
the  schools,  and  fix  with  that  which  should  give  me  the 
highest  view  of  virtue.” 

“And  you  have  found  it  to  be  that  of  Zeno.” 


12 


H  jfew  2)a^6  in  Htbens. 


“I  think  I  have  ;  but  I  was  one  day  nearly  gained 
by  a  young  Pythagorean,  and  have  been  often  in  danger 
of  becoming  one  of  the  academy.” 

“You  need  not  say  in  danger ;  for,  though  I  think 
you  choose  well  in  standing  mainly  by  Zeno,  I  would 
have  you  attend  all  the  schools,  and  that  with  a  willing 
ear.  There  is  some  risk  in  following  one  particular  sect, 
even  the  most  perfect,  lest  the  mind  become  warped 
and  the  heart  contracted.  Yes,  young  man  !  it  is 
possible  that  this  should  happen  even  in  the  portico. 
No  sect  without  its  prejudices  and  its  predilections.” 

“  I  believe  you  say  true.” 

“  I  know  I  say  true,”  returned  the  sage,  in  a  tone  of 
playfulness  he  had  more  than  one  used  ;  “  I  know  I  .say 
true, — and  had  I  before  needed  evidence  to  confirm  my 
opinion,  this  our  present  conversation  would  have 
afforded  it.” 

“  How  so  ?  ” 

“Nay,  were  I  to  explain,  you  would  not  now  credit 
me  :  no  man  can  see  his  own  prejudices  ;  no  though  a 
philosopher  should  point  at  them.  But  patience  ! 
patience  !  Time  and  opportunity  shall  right  all  things. 
Why,  you  did  not  think,”  he  resumed,  after  a  short 
pause,  you  did  not  really  think  you  were  without  prej¬ 
udices?  Eighteen,  not  more,  if  I  may  judge  by 
complexion,  and  without  prejudices  !  Why,  I  should 
hardly  dare  to  assert  I  was  myself  without  them,  and 
I  believe  I  have  fought  harder  and  somewhat  longer 
against  them  than  you  can  have  done.” 

“What  would  you  have  me  do?”  asked  the  youth, 
timidly. 

“  Have  you  do?  Why,  I  would  have  you  do  a  very 
odd  thing.  No  other  than  to  take  a  turn  or  two  in  the 
garden  of  Epicurus.” 


H  jfew  H)a^s  in  Htbens* 


13 


“  The  garden  of  Epicurus  !  Oh  !  Jupiter  !  ’*  “  Very 

true,  by  Juno.’ ^ 

‘‘  What !  To  hear  the  laws  of  virtue  confounded  and 
denied  ?  To  hear  vice  exculpated,  advocated,  pan¬ 
egyrized  ?  Impiety  and  Atheism  professed  and  in¬ 
culcated  ?  To  witness  the  nocturnal  orgies  of  vice  and 
debauchery?  Ye  gods,  what  horrors  has  Timocrates 
revealed  !  ’  ’ 

‘‘Horrors,  in  truth  somewhat  appalling,  my  young 
friend  ;  but  I  should  apprehend  Timocrates  to  be  a  little 
mistaken.  That  the  laws  of  virtue  were  even  con¬ 
founded  and  denied,  or  vice  advocated  and  panegyrized, 
by  any  professed  teacher,  I  incline  to  doubt.  And 
were  I  really  to  hear  such  things,  I  should  simply  con¬ 
clude  the  speaker  mad,  or  otherwise  that  he  was  amusing 
himself  by  shifting  the  meaning  of  words,  and  that  by 
the  term  virtue,  he  understood  vice,  and  so  by  the 
contrary.  As  to  the  inculcating  of  impiety  and 
Atheism,  this  may  be  exaggerated  or  misunderstood. 
Many  are  called  impious,  not  for  having  a  worse,  but  a 
different  religion  from  their  neighbors  ;  and  many 
Atheistical,  not  for  the  denying  of  God,  but  for  thinking 
somewhat  peculiarly  concerning  him.  Upon  the 
nocturnal  orgies  of  vice  and  debauchery  I  can  say 
nothing.  I  am  too  profoundly  ignorant  of  these 
matters,  either  to  exculpate  or  condemn  them.  Such 
things  may  be,  and  I  never  heard  of  them.  All  things 
are  possible.  Yes,”  turning  his  benignant  face  upon 
the  youth,  “even  that  Timocrates  should  lie.” 

“This  possibility  had  indeed  not  occurred  to  me.” 

“No,  my  young  friend  ;  and  shall  I  tell  you  why? 
Because  he  told  you  absurdities.  Eet  any  impostor  keep 
to  probability,  and  he  will  hardly  impose.  By  dealing 
in  the  marvelous,  he  tickles  the  imagination,  and  carries 


14 


H  ifew  H)a^0  in  Htbens* 


away  the  judgment ;  and  judgment  once  gone,  what 
shall  save  even  a  wise  man  from  folly  ?  ’  ’ 

“I  should  truly  rejoice  to  find  the  Gargettian’s 
doctrines  less  monstrous  than  I  have  hitherto  thought 
them.  I  say  less  monstrous^  for  you  would  not  wish  me 
to  think  them  good.  ’  ’ 

“I  would  wish  you  to  think  nothing  good,  or  bad 
either,  upon  my  decision.  The  first  and  the  last  thing 
that  I  would  say  to  man  is,  think  for  yourself  I  It  is 
a  bad  sentence  of  the  Pythagoreans.  ‘  The  master  said 
so.’  If  the  young  disciple  you  mentioned  should  ever 
succeed  in  your  conversion,  believe  in  the  metem¬ 
psychosis  for  some  other  reason  than  that  Pythagoras 
‘  taught  it’  ” 

“But,  if  I  may  ask,  do  you  think  well  of  Epicurus?  ” 

“I  mean  not  to  make  an  apology  for  Epicurus,  only 
to  give  a  caution  against  Timocrates  ;  but  see,  we  are 
in  the  city  :  and  fortunately  so,  for  it  is  pretty  nigh 
dark.  I  have  a  party  of  young  friends  awaiting  me, 
and,  but  that  you  may  be  apprehensive  of  nocturnal 
orgies,  I  would  ask  you  to  join  us.” 

“I  shall  not  fear  them,  where  I  have  such  a 
conductor,”  replied  the  youth,  laughing. 

“I  do  not  think  it  quite  so  impossible,  however,  as 
you  seem  to  do,”  said  the  sage  laughing,  in  his  turn, 
with  much  humor,  and  entering  a  house  as  he  spoke  ; 
then  throwing  open  with  one  arm  a  door,  and  with 
the  other  gently  drawing  the  youth  along  with  him,  “  I 
am  Epicurus !  ” 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  astonished,  the  affrighted  Theon,  started  from 
the  arms  of  the  Sage,  and  staggering  backwards, 
was  saved  probably  from  falling,  by  a  statue  that  stood 
against  the  wall  on  one  side  of  the  door  ;  he  leaned 
against  it,  pale  and  almost  fainting.  He  knew  not  what 
to  do,  scarcely  what  to  feel,  and  was  totally  blind  to  all 
the  objects  around  him.  His  conductor,  who  had  pos¬ 
sibly  expected  his  confusion,  did  not  turn  to  observe  it, 
but  advanced  in  such  a  manner  as  to  cover  him  from 
the  view  of  the  company,  and  still  to  give  time  for 
recollection,  stood  receiving  and  returning  salutations. 

“  Well  met,  my  sons  !  and  I  suppose  you  say,  well 
met,  also.  Are  you  starving,  or  am  I  to  be  starved  ? 
Have  you  eat  up  the  supper,  or  only  sat  longing  for  it, 
cursing  my  delay  ?  ” 

“The  latter,  only  the  latter,  ”  cried  a  lively  youth, 
hurrying  to  meet  his  master.  Another  and  another 
advanced,  and  in  a  moment  he  was  locked  in  a  close 
circle. 

“  Mercy  !  mercy  !  ”  cried  the  philosopher,  “drive  me 
a  step  further  and  you  will  overturn  a  couple  of  statues.’’ 
Then  looking  over  his  shoulder,  “  I  have  brought  you, 
if  he  had  not  run  away,  a  very  pleasant  young  Corinthian, 
for  whom,  until  he  gain  his  own  tongue,  I  shall  demand 
reception.  ’  ’ 


15 


i6 


H  ipcw  in  Htbens* 


He  held  out  his  hand  with  a  look  of  bewitching  en¬ 
couragement,  and  the  yet  faltering  Theon  advanced. 
The  mist  had  now  passed  from  his  eyes,  and  the  singing 
from  his  ears,  and  both  room  and  company  stood 
revealed  before  him.  Perhaps,  had  it  not  been  for  this 
motion,  and  still  more  this  look  of  the  sage,  he  had  just 
now  made  a  retreat  instead  of  an  advance.  “  In  the 
hall  of  Epicurus  ;  in  that  hall  where  Timocrates  had 
beheld  ” — Oh  !  horrid  imagination  !  “And  he  a  dis¬ 
ciple  of  Zeno  :  the  friend  of  Clean thes  :  the  son  of  a 
follower  of  Plato  ;  had  he  crossed  the  threshold  of  vice, 
the  threshold  of  the  impious  Gargettian?”  Yes;  he 
had  certainly  fled,  but  for  that  extended  hand,  and  that 
bewitching  smile.  These  however  conquered.  He  ad¬ 
vanced,  and  with  an  effort  at  composure,  met  the  offered 
hand.  The  circle  made  way,  and  Epicurus  presented 
‘a  friend.’  “His  name  you  must  learn  from  himself, 
I  am  only  acquainted  with  his  heart,  and  that  on  a 
knowledge  of  two  hours,  I  pronounce  myself  in  love 
with.” 

“Then  he  shall  be  my  brother,”  cried  the  lively 
youth  who  had  before  spoken,  and  he  ran  to  the  embrace 
of  Theon. 

“When  shall  we  use  our  own  eyes,  ears,  and  under¬ 
standing?  ”  said  the  sage,  gently  stroking  his  scholar’s 
head.  “See  !  our  new  friend  knows  not  how  to  meet 
your  premature  affection.” 

“  He  waits,”  returned  the  youth,  archly,  “  to  receive 
the  same  commendation  of  me  that  I  have  of  him.  Eet 
the  master  say  he  is  in  love  with  my  heart,  and  he  too 
will  open  his  arms  to  a  brother.” 

“  I  hope  he  is  not  such  a  fool,”  gaily  replied  the  sage. 
Then,  with  an  accent  more  serious,  but  still  sweeter, 
“I  hope  he  will  judge  all  things,  and  all  people,  with 


H  Jfew  Dap5  in  Htbens* 


17 


his  own  understanding,  and  not  with  that  of  Epicnrus, 
or  yet  of  a  wiser  man.  When  may  I  hope  this  of 
Sofron  ?  ”  smiling  and  shaking  his  head  ;  “can  Sofron 
tell  me  ?  ”, 

“No,  indeed  he  cannot,”  rejoined  the  scholar, 
smiling,  and  shaking  his  head  also,  as  in  mimicry  of  his 
master. 

“Go,  go,  you  rogue  !  and  show  us  to  our  supper.  I 
more  than  half  suspect  you  have  devoured  it.”  He 
turned,  and  familiarly  taking  Theon  by  the  shoulder, 
walked  up  the  room,  or  rather  gallery,  and  entered  a 
spacious  rotunda. 

A  lamp,  suspended  from  the  center  of  the  ceiling 
lighted  a  table  spread  beneath  it,  with  a  simple  but 
elegant  repast.  Round  the  walls  in  niches  at  equal 
distances,  stood  twelve  statues,  the  work  of  the  best 
masters  ;  on  either  hand  of  these  burnt  a  lamp  on  a 
small  tripod.  Beside  one  of  the  lamps,  a  female  figure 
was  reclining  on  a  couch,  reading  with  earnest  study 
from  a  book  that  lay  upon  her  knee.  Her  head  was  so 
much  bowed  forward  as  to  conceal  her  face,  besides  that 
it  was  shadowed  by  her  hand,  which  the  elbow  supported 
on  an  arm  of  the  couch,  was  spread  above  her  brows  as  a 
relief  from  the  glare  of  the  light.  At  her  feet  was 
seated  a  young  girl,  by  whose  side  lay  a  small  cithara, 
silent,  and  forgotten  by  its  mistress.  Crete  might  have 
lent  those  eyes  their  sparkling  jet,  but  all  the  soul  of 
tenderness  that  breathed  from  them  was  pure  Ionian. 
The  full  and  ruddy  lips,  half  parted,  showed  two  rows  of 
pearls,  which  Thetis  might  have  envied.  Still  a  vulgar 
eye  would  not  have  rested  on  the  countenance  ;  the 
features  wanted  the  Doric  harmony,  and  the  complexion 
was  tinged  by  an  Afric  sun.  Theon  however,  saw  not 
this,  as  his  eyes  fell  on  those  of  the  girl,  uplifted  to  the 


i8 


H  iFew  2)a^s  in  Htbena* 


countenance  of  her  studious  companion.  Never  was  a 
book  read  more  earnestly  than  was  that  face  by  the  fond 
and  gentle  eyes  which  seemed  to  worship  as  they  gazed. 

The  sound  of  approaching  feet  caught  the  ear  of  the 
lovely  maiden.  She  rose,  blushed,  half  returned  the 
salute  of  the  master,  and  timidly  drew  back  some  paces. 
The  student  was  still  intent  upon  the  scroll  over  which 
she  hung,  when  the  sage  advanced  towards  her,  and  lay¬ 
ing  a  finger  on  her  shoulder,  said  : — 

‘‘What  read  you,  my  daughter?”  She  dropped  her 
hand,  and  looked  up  in  his  face.  What  a  countenance 
was  then  revealed  ?  It  was  not  the  beauty  of  blooming, 
blushing  youth,  courting  love  and  desire.  It  was  the 
self-possessed  dignity  of  ripened  womanhood,  and  the 
noble  majesty  of  mind,  that  asked  respect,  and  promised 
delight  and  instruction.  The  features  were  not  those  of 
Venus,  but  Minerva.  The  eyes  looked  deep  and  steady 
from  beneath  two  even  brows,  that  sense,  not  years,  had 
slightly  knit  in  center  of  the  forehead,  which  else  was 
uniformly  smooth  and  polished  as  marble.  The  nose 
was  rather  Roman  than  Grecian,  yet  perfectly  regular, 
and,  though  not  masculine,  would  have  been  severe  in 
expression,  but  for  a  mouth  where  all  that  was  lovely 
and  graceful  habited.  The  chin  was  elegantly  rounded, 
and  turned  in  the  Greek  manner.  The  color  of  the 
cheeks  was  of  the  softest  and  palest  rose,  so  pale,  indeed, 
as  scarcely  to  be  discernible  till  deepened  by  emotion. 
It  was  so  at  this  moment  :  startled  by  the  address  of  the 
sage,  a  bright  flush  passed  over  her  face.  She  rolled  up 
the  book,  dropped  it  on  the  couch,  and  rose.  Her 
stature  was  much  above  the  female  standard,  but  every 
limb  and  every  motion  was  symmetry  and  harmony. 
“A  treatise  of  Theophrastus;  eloquent,  ingenious,  and 
chimerical.  I  have  a  fancy  to  answer  it.”  Her  voice 


H  jfew  in  Htbens* 


19 


was  full  and  deep,  like  the  tones  of  a  harp,  when  its 
chords  are  struck  by  the  hand  of  a  master. 

“No  one  could  do  it  better,’^  replied  the  sage.  “  But 
I  should  have  guessed  the  aged  Peripatetic  already 
silenced  by  the  most  acute,  elegant,  and  subtle  pen  of 
Athens.”  She  bowed  to  the  compliment. 

“Is  that  then  the  famous  lyeontium  ?  ”  muttered 
Theon.  “  Timocrates  must  be  a  liar.” 

“I  know  not,”  resumed  Iveontium,  “that  I  should 
this  evening  have  so  frequently  thought  Theophrastus 
wrong,  if  he  had  not  made  me  so  continually  feel  that  he 
thought  himself  right.  Must  I  seek  the  cause  of  this  in 
the  writer’s  or  the  reader’s  vanity  ?  ” 

“Perhaps,”  said  the  master  smiling,  “you  will  find 
that  it  lies  in  both.” 

“I  believe  you  have  it,”  returned  Teontium. 
“  Theophrastus,  in  betraying  his  self-love,  hurt  mine. 
He  who  is  about  to  prove  that  his  own  way  of  thinking 
is^ght,  must  bear  in  mind,  that  he  is  about  also  to 
prove,  that  all  other  ways  of  thinking  are  wrong.  And 
if  this  should  make  him  slow  to  enter  on  the  under¬ 
taking,  it  should  make  him  yet  more  careful,  when  he 
does  enter  on  it  to  do  it,  with  becoming  modesty.  We 
are  surely  imperiously  called  upon  to  make  a  sacrifice  of 
our  own  vanity,  before  we  call  upon  others  to  make  a 
sacrifice  of  theirs.  But  I  would  not  particularize 
Theophrastus  for  sometimes  forgetting  this,  as  I  have 
never  known  but  one  who  always  remembers  it.  Gen¬ 
tleness  and  modesty  are  qualities  at  once  the  most  in¬ 
dispensable  to  a  teacher,  and  the  most  rarely  possessed 
by  him.  It  was  these  that  won  the  ears  of  the  Athenian 
youth  to  Socrates,  and  it  is  these,”  inclining  to  the 
master,  “  that  will  secure  them  to  Epicurus.” 

“  Could  I  accept  your  praise,  my  daughter,  I  should 


20 


H  iFew  Dai^s  In  Htbens* 


have  no  doubt  of  the  truth  of  your  prophecy.  For 
indeed,  the  mode  of  delivering  a  truth  makes,  for  the 
most  part,  as  much  impression  on  the  mind  of  the 
listener,  as  the  truth  itself.  It  is  as  hard  to  receive  the 
words  of  wisdom  from  the  ungentle,  as  it  is  to  love,  or 
even  to  recognize  virtue  in  the  austere.”  He  drew  near 
the  table  as  he  spoke.  Often,  during  supper,  were  the 
eyes  of  Theon  riveted  on  the  face  of  this  female  disciple. 
“  Such  grace  !  such  majesty  !  More  than  all,  such  in¬ 
tellect  !  And  this  —  this  was  the  Feontium  Timocrates 
had  called  a  prostitute  without  shame  or  measure  ! 
And  this  was  the  Epicurus  he  had  blasted  with  names 
too  vile  and  horrible  to  repeat  even  in  thought  !  And 
these,”  continuing  his  inward  soliloquy  as  he  looked 
round  the  board,  “  there  was  the  devoted  victims  of  the 
vice  of  an  impious  master  !  ” 

“You  arrived  most  seasonably  this  evening,”  cried 
Sofron,  addressing  the  philosopher;  “most  seasonably 
for  the  lungs  of  two  of  your  scholars.” 

“And  for  the  ears  of  a  third,”  interrupted  Eeontium, 
“  I  was  fairly  driven  into  exile.” 

“  What  was  the  subject  ?  ”  asked  Epicurus. 

“Whether  the  vicious  were  more  justly  objects  of  in¬ 
dignation  or  of  contempt  :  Metrodorus  argued  for  the 
first,  and  I  for  the  latter.  Eet  the  master  decide.” 

“He  will  give  his  opinion  certainly  ;  but  that  is  not 
decision.” 

“  Well  ;  and  your  opinion  is  that  of - ?” 

“  Neither.” 

“Neither  !  I  had  no  idea  the  question  has  more  than 
two  sides.” 

“  It  has  yet  a  third  ;  and  I  hardly  ever  heard  a  question 
that  had  not.  Had  I  regarded  the  vicious  with  indig¬ 
nation,  I  had  never  gained  one  to  virtue.  Had  I  viewed 


H  JFew  S>ass  in  Htbehs. 


21 


them  with  contempt,  I  had  never  sought  to  gain  one.” 
“How  is  it,”  said  lyeontium,  “  that  the  scholars  are  so 
little  familiar  with  the  temper  of  their  master  ?  When 
did  Epicurus  look  on  the  vicious  with  other  than  com¬ 
passion  ?  ’  ^ 

*  ‘  True,  ’  ’  said  Metrodorus.  ‘  ‘  I  know  not  how  I  forgot 
this,  when  perhaps  it  is  the  only  point  which  I  have, 
more  than  once,  presumed  to  argue  with  him  ;  and 
upon  which  I  have  persisted  in  retaining  a  different 
opinion.” 

“Talking  not  of  presumption,  my  son.  Who  had 
not  a  right  to  think  for  himself?  Or,  who  is  he  whose 
voice  is  infallible,  and  worthy  to  silence  those  of  his 
fellow-men  ?  And  remember,  that  your  remaining  un¬ 
convinced  by  my  argument  on  one  occasion,  can  only 
tend  to  make  your  conviction  more  flattering  to  me  upon 
others.  Yet,  on  the  point  in  question,  were  I  anxious 
to  bring  you  over  to  my  opinion  I  know  one,  whose 
argument,  better  and  more  forcible  than  mine,  will  ere 
long  most  effectually  do  so.” 

“  Who  mean  you  ?  ” 

“No  other  than  old  hoary  Time,”  said  the  master, 
“  who,  as  he  leads  us  gently  onwards  in  the  path  of  life, 
demonstrates  to  us  many  truths  that  we  never  heard  in 
the  schools,  and  some  that  hearing  there,  we  found  hard 
to  receive.  Our  knowledge  of  human  life  must  be  ac¬ 
quired  by  our  passage  throiigh  it;  the  lessons  of  the  sage 
are  not  sufficient  to  impart  it.  Our  knowledge  of  men 
must  be  acquired  by  our  own  study  of  them  ;  the  report 
of  others  will  never  convince  us.  When  you,  my  son, 
have  seen  more  of  life,  and  studied  more  men,  you  will 
find,  or,  at  least,  I  think  you  will  find,  that  the  judg¬ 
ment  is  not  false  which  makes  us  lenient  to  their  fail¬ 
ings,  yea  !  even  to  the  crimes  of  our  fellows.  In  youth. 


22 


H  ffew  H)a^s  in  Htbens* 


we  act'  on  the  impulse  of  feeling,  and  we  feel  without 
pausing  to  judge.  An  action,  vicious  in  itself,  or  that 
is  so  merely  in  our  estimation,  fills  us  with  horror,  and 
we  turn  from  its  agent  without  waiting  to  listen  to  the 
plea  which  his  ignorance  could  make  to  our  mercy.  In 
our  more  ripened  years,  supposing  our  judgment  to  have 
ripened  also,  when  all  the  insidious  temptations  that 
misguided  him,  and  all  the  disadvantages  that  he  had 
labored  under,  perhaps  from  his  birth,  are  apparent  to  us  : 
it  is  then,  and  not  till  then,  that  our  indignation  at  the 
crime  is  lost  in  our  pity  of  the  man.’’ 

“I  am  the  last,”  said  Metrodorus,  a  crimson  blush 
spreading  over  his  face,  “  who  should  object  to  my 
master  his  mercy  towards  the  offending.  But  there  are 
vices  different  from  those  he  saved  me  from,  which,  if 
not  more  unworthy,  are,  perhaps,  more  unpardonable, 
because  committed  with  less  temptation  ;  and  far  more 
revolting,  as  springing  less  from  thoughtless  ignorance 
than  from  the  deliberate  and  closely  calculating  de¬ 
pravity.” 

Are  we  not  prone,”  said  the  sage,  “  to  extenuate  our 
foibles,  even  while  condemning  them  ?  And  does  it  not 
flatter  our  self-love,  to  weigh  our  own  vices  against 
those  of  more  erring  neighbors  ?  ” 

The  scholar  leaned  forward,  and  stooping  his  face  to¬ 
wards  the  hand  of  his  master,  where  it  rested  on  the 
table,  laid  the  deepening  crimsons  of  his  cheek  upon  it. 
“I  mean  not  to  exculpate  the  early  vices  of  Metrodorus. 

I  love  to  consider  them  in  all  their  enormity  ;  for  the 
more  heinous  the  vices  of  his  youth,  the  greater  is  the 
debt  of  gratitude  his  manhood  has  to  repay  to  thee.  But 
tell  me,”  he  added,  and  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  benignant 
face  of  the  sage,  ”  tell  me,  oh  !  my  friend  and  guide  ! 
was  the  soul  of  Metrodorus  found  base  or  deceitful  ;  or. 


H  ffew  H)aps  in  Htbens* 


23 


has  his  heart  proved  false  to  gratitude  and  affedlion  ?  ” 
“  No  !  my  son,  no  !  ”  said  Epicurus,  his  face  beaming 
with  goodness,  and  a  tear  glistening  in  his  eye.  “  No  ! 
Vice  never  choked  the  warm  feelings  of  thy  heart,  nor 
clouded  the  fair  ingenuousness  of  thy  soul.  But  my  son, 
a  few  years  later,  — a  few  years  later,  and  who  shall 
say  what  might  have  been  ?  Trust  me,  none  can  drink 
of  the  cup  of  vice  with  impunity.  But  you  will  say, 
that  there  are  qualities  of  so  mean  or  so  horrible  a  nature, 
as  to  place  the  man  that  is  governed  by  them  out  of  the 
pale  of  communion  with  the  virtuous.  Deceit,  malice, 
cruelty,  and  ingratitude  ;  crimes  such  as  these  should, 
you  think,  draw  down  upon  those  convicted  of  them,  no 
feelings  more  mild  than  abhorrence,  execration,  and 
scorn.  And  yet  perhaps,  these  were  not  always  natural 
to  the  heart  they  now  sway.  Fatal  impressions,  vicious 
example,  operating  on  the  plastic  frame  of  childhood, 
may  have  perverted  all  the  fair  gifts  of  Nature,  may 
have  distorted  the  tender  plant  from  the  seedling,  and 
crushed  all  the  blossoms  of  virtue  in  the  germ.  Say, 
shall  we  not  compassionate  the  moral  disease  of  our 
brother,  and  try  our  skill  to  restore  him  to  health  ?  But 
is  the  evil  beyond  cure  ?  Is  the  mind  strained  into 
changeless  deformity,  and  the  heart  corrupted  in  the 
core?  Greater,  then,  much  greater,  wull  be  our  com¬ 
passion.  For  is  not  his  wretchedness  complete,  when 
his  errors  are  without  hope  of  correction?  Oh  !  my 
sons  !  the  wicked  may  work  mischief  to  others,  but  they 
never  can  inflict  a  pang  such  as  they  endure  themselves. 
I  am  satisfied,  that  of  all  the  miseries  that  tear  the  heart 
of  man,  none  may  compare  with  those  it  feels  beneath 
the  sway  of  baleful  passions.” 

”  Oh  !  ”  cried  Theon,  turning  with  a  timid  blush 
towards  Epicurus,  “I  have  long  owned  the  power  of 


24  H  iFew  Ba^s  in  Htbens* 

virtue,  but  surely  till  this  night  I  never  felt  its 
persuasion.” 

“I  see  you  were  not  born  for  a  stoic,”  said  the  master, 
smiling.  “Why,  my  son,  what  made  you  fall  in  love 
with  Zeno  ?  ’  ’ 

“  His  virtues,”  said  the  youth,  proudly. 

“His  fine  face  and  fine  talking,”  returned  the 
philosopher,  with  a  tone  of  playful  irony.  “  Nay  !  don’t 
be  offended  ;  and  he  stretched  his  hand  to  Theon’s 
shoulder,  who  reclined  on  the  sofa  next  him.  “  I 
admire  your  master  very  much,  and  go  to  hear  him  very 
often.” 

“  Indeed  !  ” 

“  Indeed  ?  Yes,  indeed.  Is  it  so  wonderful  ?  ” 

“You  were  not  there” - Theon  stopped  and 

looked  down  in  confusion. 

“To-day,  you  mean?  Yes,  I  was  ;  and  heard  a  de¬ 
scription  of  myself  that  might  match  in  pleasantry  with 
that  in  ‘  The  Clouds'*'^  of  old  Socrates.  Pray,  don’t  you 
find  it  very  like  ?  ” 

He  leaned  over  the  side  of  the  couch,  and  looked 
in  Theon’s  face. 

.“  I — I  ” —  The  youth  stammered  and  looked  down. 

“Think  it  is,”  said  the  sage,  as  if  concluding  the 
sentence  for  him. 

“No,  think  it  is  not  ;  swear  it  is  not,”  burst  forth 
the  eager  youth,  and  looked  as  if  he  would  have  thrown 
himself  at  the  philosopher’s  feet.  “  Oh  !  why  did  you 
not  stand  forth  and  silence  the  liar  ?  ” 

“  Truly,  my  son,  the  liar  was  too  pleasant  to  be  angry 
with,  and  too  absurd  to  be  answered.” 

“  And  yet  he  was  believed  ?  ” 

♦  Alluding  to  the  comedy  of  Aristophanes,  in  which  Socrates  was  indecently 
ridiculed. 


H  ffew  Ba^s  in  Htbens^ 


25 


“Of  course.  ”  “  But  why  then  not  answer  him?’’ 

“And  so  I  do.  I  answer  him  in  my  life.  The  only 
way  in  which  a  philosopher  should  ever  answer  a  fool, 
or,  as  in  this  case,  a  knave.” 

“I  am  really  bewildered,”  cried  Theon,  gazing  in 
the  philosopher’s,  and  then  in  Teontium’s  countenance, 
and  then  throwing  a  glance  round  the  circle, — “lam 
really  bewildered  with  astonishment  and  shame,”  he 
continued,  casting  down  his  eyes,  “  that  I  should  have 
listened  to  that  liar  Timocrates  !  What  a  fool  you  must 
think  me  !  ” 

“No  more  of  a  fool  than  Zeno,”  said  the  sage, 
laughing. 

“  What  a  philosopher  listened  to,  I  cannot  much 
blame  a  scholar  for  believing.” 

“Oh  !  that  Zeno  knew  you  !  ” 

“And  then  he  would  certainly  hate  me.” 

“  You  joke.” 

“  Quite  serious.  Don’t  you  know  he  who  quarrels 
with  your  doctrine,  must  always  quarrel  with  your 
practice? — Nothing  is  so  provoking  as  that  any  per¬ 
son  should  preach  viciously,  and  act  virtuously.” 

“  But  you  do  not  preach  viciously.” 

“  I  hope  not.  But  those  will  call  it  so,  aye  !  and  in 
honest  heart  think  it  so,  who  preach  a  different,  it  need 
not  be  a  better^  doctrine.  ’  ’ 

“  But  Zeno  mistakes  your  doctrine.” 

“  I  have  no  doubt  he  expounds  it  wrong.” 

“  He  mistakes  it  altogether.  He  believes  that  you 
own  no  other  law,  no  other  principle  of  action,  than 
pleasure.  ’  ’ 

“  He  believes  right.” 

“Right?  Impossible!  That  you  teach  men  to 


26 


H  jfew  Daps  in  Htbens* 


laugh  at  virtue,  and  to  riot  in  luxury  and  vice.” 
“  There  he  believes  wrong.” 

Theon  looked  as  he  felt,  curious  and  uncertain.  He 
gazed  first  on  the  philosopher,  and,  when  he  did  not 
proceed,  walked  timidly  round  the  circle.  Every  face 
had  a  smile  on  it. 

“The  orgies  are  concluded,”  said  Epicurus,  rising, 
and  turning  with  affected  gravity  to  the  young  Corin¬ 
thian  :  “  You  have  seen  the  horrors  of  the  night ;  if  they 
have  left  any  curiosity  for  the  mysteries  of  the  day,  seek 
our  garden  to-morrow  at  sun-rise,  and  you  shall  be  in¬ 
itiated.” 


CHAPTER  III. 


The  steeds  of  the  sun  had  not  mounted  the  horizon 
when  Theon  took  the  road  to  the  Garden.  He 
found  the  gate  open.  The  path  he  entered  on  was  broad 
and  even,  and  shaded  on  either  side  by  rows  of  cork, 
lime,  oak,  and  other  the  finest  trees  of  the  forest. 
Pursuing  this  for  some  way,  he  suddenly  opened  on  a 
fair  and  varied  lawn,  through  which  the  Illissus,  now  of 
the  whitest  silver  in  the  pale  twilight,  stole  with  a  gentle 
and  noiseless  course.  Crossing  the  lawn,  he  struck  into 
a  close  thicket  ;  the  orange,  the  laurel,  and  the  myrtle, 
hung  over  his  head,  whose  flowers,  slowly  opening  to 
the  breeze  and  light  of  morning,  dropped  dews  and  per¬ 
fumes.  A  luxurious  indolence  crept  over  his  soul  ;  he 
breathed  the  airs,  and  felt  the  bliss  of  Elysium.  With 
slow  and  measured  steps  he  treaded  the  maze,  till  he 
entered  suddenly  on  a  small  open  plot  of  verdure  in  face 
of  a  beautiful  temple.  The  place  was  three  parts  en¬ 
circled  with  a  wood  of  flowering  shrubs,  the  rest  was 
girded  by  the  winding  Illissus,  over  which  the  eye 
wandered  to  the  glades  and  softly  swelling  hills,  whose 
fair  bosoms  glowed  beneath  the  dyes  of  Aurora.  The 
building  was  small  and  circular  ;  Doric,  and  of  the 
marble  of  Paros  ;  an  open  portico,  supported  by  twenty 
pillars,  ran  round  the  edifice  ;  the  roof  rose  in  a  dome. 
The  roseate  tints  of  the  East  fell  on  the  polished. col¬ 
umns,  like  the  blush  of  love  on  the  cheek  of  Diana, 
when  she  stood  before  her  Endymion. 


27 


28 


H  ffew  H)aps  in  Htbene* 


Theon  stopped  ;  the  sceue  was  heavenly.  IvOng  had 
he  gazed  in  silent  and  calm  delight,  when  his  eye  was 
attracted  by  the  waving  of  a  garment  on  one  side  of  the 
temple.  He  advanced,  and  beheld  a  figure  leaning 
against  one  of  the  pillars.  The  sun  at  that  moment 
shot  his  first  beam  above  the  hills  ;  it  fell  full  upon  the 
face  of  the  son  of  Neocles  ;  it  was  raised,  and  the  eyes 
were  fixed  as  in  deep  meditation.  The  features  reposed 
in  the  calm  of  wisdom  ;  the  arms  were  folded,  and  the 
drapery  fell  in  masses  to  the  feet.  Theon  flew  towards 
him,  then  suddenly  stopped,  fearing  to  break  upon  his 
thoughts.  At  the  sound  the  sage  turned  his  head, — 
“Welcome,  my  son,”  he  said  advancing  to  meet  him, 
“welcome  to  the  garden  of  pleasure  ;  may  you  find  it 
the  abode  of  peace,  of  wisdom,  and  of  virtue.” 

“  Theon  bowed  his  head  upon  the  hand  of  the  master. 
“Teach  me,  guide  me,  make  me  what  you  will  ;  my 
soul  is  in  your  hand.  ’  ’ 

“It  is  yet  tender,  yet  pure,”  said  the  Gargettian  ; 
“years  shall  strengthen  it.  Oh  !  let  them  not  sully  it  ! 
See  that  luminary  !  lovely  and  glorious  in  the  dawn,  he 
gathers  beauty  and  strength  to  his  meridian,  and  passes 
in  peace  and  grandeur  to  his  rest.  So  do  thou,  my  son. 
Open  your  ears  and  your  eyes  ;  know,  and  choose  what 
is  good  ;  enter  the  path  of  virtue,  and  thou  shalt  follow 
it,  for  thou  shalt  find  it  sweet.  Thorns  are  not  in  it, 
nor  is  it  difficult  or  steep  ;  like  the  garden  you  have 
now  entered,  all  there  is  pleasure  and  repose.” 

“Ah!”  cried  Theon,  “how  different  is  virtue  in 
your  mouth  and  in  Zeno’s  1  ” 

“The  doctrine  of  Zeno,”  replied  the  sage,  “is  sub¬ 
lime  ;  many  great  men  shall  come  from  his  school  ;  an 
amiable  world,  from  mine.  Zeno  hath  his  eye  on  man  ; 


H  fcvo  Da^s  in  Htbens* 


29 


I,  mine  on  men  ;  none  but  philosophers  can  be  stoics  ; 
Epicureans  all  may  be.” 

“But,”  asked  Theon,  “is  there  more  than  one 
virtue  ?  ’  ’ 

“No,  but  men  clothe  her  diflferently  ;  some  in  clouds 
and  thunder  ;  some  in  smiles  and  pleasures.  Doctors, 
my  son,  quarrel  more  about  words  than  things,  and 
more  about  the  means  than  the  end.  In  the  portico,  in 
the  Eycenm,  in  the  Academy,  in  the  school  of 
Pythagoras,  in  the  Tub  of  Diogenes,  the  teacher  points 
you  to  virtue  ;  in  the  Garden  he  points  you  to  happiness. 
Now  open  your  eyes,  my  son,  and  examine  the  two 
Deities.  Say,  are  they  not  the  same  ?  Virtue,  is  it  not 
happiness  ?  and  is  not  happiness,  virtue  ?  ” 

“  Is  this,  then,  the  secret  of  your  doctrine?  ” 

“No  other.” 

“  But  —  but  —  where  then  is  the  dispute?  Truly,  as 
you  have  said,  in  words,  not  things.” 

“Yes,  in  a  great  measure,  yet  not  altogether  ;  we  are 
all  the  wooers  of  virtue,  but  we  are  the  wooers  of  a 
different  character.  ’  ’ 

“  And  may  she  not  then  favor  one  more  than 
another?” 

“That  is  a  question,”  replied  the  Gargettian,  play¬ 
fully,  “  that  each  will  answer  in  his  own  favor.  If  you 
ask  me,”  he  continued,  with  one  of  his  sweetest  tones 
and  smiles,  “I  shall  say,  that  I  feel  myself  virtuous, 
because  my  soul  is  at  rest.” 

“  If  this  be  your  criterion,  you  should  with  the  stoics 
deny  that  pain  is  an  evil.” 

“By  no  means  ;  so  much  the  contrary,  that  I  hold  it 
the  greatest  of  all  evils,  and  the  whole  aim  of  my  life, 
and  of  my  philosophy,  is  to  escape  from  it.  To  deny 
that  pain  is  an  evil,  is  such  another  quibble  as  the 


30 


H  jfew  in  Htbens* 


Blean’s  denial  of  motion  ;  that  must  exist  to  a  man 
which  exists  to  his  senses  ;  and  as  to  existence  or  non¬ 
existence  abstracted  from  them,  though  it  may  afford  an 
idle  argument  for  an  idle  hour,  it  can  never  enter  as  a 
truth  from  which  to  draw  conclusions,  in  the  practical 
lessons  of  a  master.  To  deny  that  pain  is  an  evil,  seems 
more  absurd  than  to  deny  its  existence,  which  has  also 
been  done  for  its  existence  is  only  apparent  from  its 
effect  upon  our  senses  ;  how  then  shall  we  admit  the 
existence,  and  deny  the  effect,  which  alone  forces  that 
admittance?  But  we  will  leave  these  matters  to  the 
dialecticians  of  the  Portico.  I  feel  myself  virtuous 
because  my  soul  is  at  rest.  With  evil  passions  I  should 
be  disturbed  and  uneasy  ;  with  uncontrolled  appetites  I 
should  be  disordered  in  body  as  well  as  mind  ;  for  this 
reason  only,  I  avoid  both.” 

“Only  !” 

“  Only  ;  virtue  is  pleasure  ;  were  it  not  so,  I  should 
not  follow  it.” 

Theon  was  about  to  break  forth  in  indignant  astonish¬ 
ment  ;  the  sage  softly  laid  a  hand  upon  his  arm,  and, 
with  a  smile  and  bend  of  the  head  demanding  attention, 
proceeded  ;  “The  masters  who  would  have  us  to  follow 
virtue  for  her  own  sake,  independent  of  any  pleasure  or 
advantage  that  we  may  find  in  the  pursuit,  are  really  sub¬ 
lime  visionaries,  who  built  a  theory  without  examining 
the  ground  on  which  they  build  it  ;  who  advance 
doctrines  without  examining  principles.  Why  do  I 
gaze  on  the  Cupid  of  Praxiteles  ?  Because  it  is 
beautiful  ;  because  it  gives  me  pleasurable  sensations. 
If  it  gave  me  no  pleasurable  sensations,  should  I  find  it 
beautiful  ?  should  I  gaze  upon  it  ?  or,  would  you  call 
me  wise  if  then  I  gave  a  drachma  for  its  possession  ? 
What  other  means  have  we  of  judging  of  things  than  by 


H  Jfew  Daps  in  Htbens* 


31 


the  effect  they  produce  upon  our  senses?  Our  senses 
then  being  the  judges  of  all  things,  the  aim  of  all  men 
is  to  gratify  their  senses  ;  in  other  words,  their  aim  is 
pleasure  or,  happiness  ;  and  if  virtue  were  not  found  to 
conduce  to  this,  men  would  do  well  to  shun  her,  as  they 
now  do  well  to  shun  vice.’^ 

“You  own  then  no  pleasure  but  virtue,  and  no  misery 
but  vice  ? 

“  Not  at  all  ;  I  think  virtue  only  the  highest  pleasure, 
and  vice,  or  ungoverned  passions  and  appetites,  the 
worst  misery.  Other  pleasures  are  requisite  to  form  a 
state  of  perfect  ease,  which  is  happiness  ;  and  other 
miseries  are  capable  of  troubling,  perhaps  destroying, 
the  peace  of  the  most  virtuous  and  the  wisest  men.  ’  ’ 

‘  ‘  I  begin  to  see  more  reason  in  your  doctrine,  ’  ’  said 
the  youth,  looking  up  with  a  timid  blush  in  the  face  of 
the  philosopher. 

“And  less  monstrous  depravity,’^  replied  the  Gar- 
gettian,  laughing.  “My  young  friend,”  he  continued, 
more  seriously,  “learn  henceforth  to  form  your  judg¬ 
ments  upon  knowledge,  not  report.  Credulity  is  always 
a  ridiculous,  often  a  dangerous  failing  ;  it  has  made  of 
many  a  clever  man,  a  fool  ;  and  of  many  a  good  man,  a 
knave.  But  have  you  nothing  to  urge  against  me? 
You  say  you  see  more  reason  in  my  doctrine,  which 
implies,  that  you  think  me  less  wrong,  but  not  right.” 

“I  am  a  young  disputant,”  answered  Theon,  “and 
very  unfit  to  engage  with  such  a  master.” 

“That  does  not  follow  ;  a  bad  logician  may  have  a 
good  understanding  ;  and  a  young  mind  may  be  an 
acute  one.  If  my  argument  have  truth  in  it,  less  than 
a  philosopher  will  see  it  ;  and  if  it  have  not,  less  than  a 
logician  may  refute  it.” 

“I  think  I  could  urge  some  objections,”  replied 


32 


H  3Few  in  Utbcns. 


Theon,  “but  they  are  so  confused  and  indistinct,  I 
almost  fear  to  bring  them  forth.” 

‘  ‘  I  dare  say  I  could  forestall  the  most  of  them,  ’  ’  said 
the  master,  “but  I  had  rather  leave  your  mind  to  its 
own  exercise.  Think  over  the  matter  at  leisure,  and 
you  shall  start  your  questions  some  evening  or  morning 
among  my  scholars.  Knowledge  is  better  imparted  in  a 
dialogue  than  a  lecture  ;  and  a  dialogue  is  not  the  worse 
for  having  more  than  two  interlocutors.  So  !  our  walk 
has  well  ended  with  our  subject.  Let  us  see  what  friends 
are  here.  There  are  surely  voices.”  Their  route  had 
been  circular,  and  had  brought  them  again  in  front  of 
the  temple.  “This  is  a  favorite  lodgement  of  mine,” 
said  the  sage,  ascending  the  noble  flight  of  steps,  and 
entering  the  open  door.  The  apartment,  spacious, 
vaulted,  and  circular,  occupied  the  whole  of  the 
building.  The  walls  were  adorned  with  fine  copies  of 
the  best  pieces  of  Zeuxis  and  Parrhasius,  and  some 
beautiful  originals  of  Apelles.  A  statue,  the  only  one  in 
the  apartment,  was  raised  on  a  pedestal  in  the  center. 
It  was  a  Venus  Urania  by  the  hand  of  Lysippus,  well 
chosen  as  the  presiding  Deity  in  the  gardens  of  virtuous 
pleasure.  The  ceiling  rising  into  a  noble  dome,  rep¬ 
resented  the  heavens  ;  a  ground  of  deep  blue  ;  the  stars, 
sun,  and  planets,  in  raised  gold.  But  two  living  figures 
soon  fixed  the  attention  of  Theon.  In  one  he  recognized 
Metrodorus,  though  he  had  not  the  evening  before 
much  observed  his  countenance.  He  stood  at  a 
painter’s  easel.  His  figures  was  more  graceful  than 
dignified,  his  face  more  expressive  than  handsome. 
The  eyes,  dark,  piercing,  and  brilliant  were  bent  in  a 
painter’s  earnest  gaze  on  his  living  study.  The  fore¬ 
head  was  short,  raised  much  at  the  temples, and  singularly 
over  the  brows.  The  hair  of  a  dark  glossy  brown,  short 


H  ffew  in  Htbens* 


33 


and  curled.  The  cheeks  at  the  moment  deeply  flushed 
with  the  eagerness,  and,  perhaps,  the  impatience  of  an 
artist.  The  mouth  curled  voluptuously,  yet  not  without 
a  mixture  of  satire  ;  the  chin  curved  upwards,  slightly 
Grecian,  assisted  this  expression.  His  study  was 
Teontium. 

She  stood,  rather  than  leaned,  against  a  pilaster  of  the 
wall  ;  one  arm  supported  on  a  slab  of  marble,  an  unrolled 
book  half  lying  on  the  same  and  half  in  her  opened 
hand.  The  other  arm,  partly  hid  in  the  drapery,  dropped 
loosely  by  her  side.  Her  fine  face  turned  a  little 
over  the  left  shoulder,  to  meet  the  eye  of  the  painter. 

Not  a  muscle  played  ;  the  lips  seemed  not  to  breathe  ; 
so  calm,  so  pale,  so  motionless,  she  looked  a  statue  ;  — 
so  noble,  so  severely  beautiful,  she  looked  the  Minerva 
of  Phidias. 

“I  cannot  do  it  !  ”  cried  Metrodorus,  flinging  down 
his  pencil.  “  I  had  need  be  Apelles,  to  take  that  face.” 
He  pushed  back  his  easel  in  disgust. 

“  What  !  ”  said  Leontium,  her  fine  features  relaxing 
into  a  heavenly  smile,  “  and  is  all  my  patience  to  go  for 
nothing  ?  ” 

“  I  am  a  blundering,  blind  Boeotian  !  a  savage 
vSpartan  !”  continued  the  disappointed  artist.  “There!” 
and  seizing  a  brush,  was  about  to  demolish  his  work. 

“  For  your  life  1  ”  cried  Leontium  ;  and,  starting  for¬ 
ward,  pulled  aside  his  hand.  “Oh  1  the  mad  ill-temper 
of  a  genius  1  Why,  friend,  if  my  face  were  half  so  fine 
as  that,  Juno  would  be  jealous  of  it.” 

“And  who  knows  that  she  is  not?  A  daub  !  a  vile 
daub!”  still  muttered  the  impatient  scholar,  yet  his 
face  gradually  relaxing  its  anger,  as  in  spite  of  itself, 
until  it  turned  to  meet  Heontium’s  with  a  smile. 


34 


H  JFew  Daps  in  Htbens* 


‘‘  And  there  stand  the  master  and  the  young  Corinthian 
laughing  at  you,”  said  I/eontium. 

They  approached.  “Are  you  a  judge?’’  asked 
Metrodorus  of  Theon. 

‘  ‘  I  am  afraid  not,  though  the  confession  will  mar  my 
compliments.” 

“  But  I  am,”  said  the  Gargettian,  humorously  ;  “and 
although  I  have  all  the  inclination  in  the  world,  yet  I 
cannot  quarrel  with  the  performance.  Well  outlined, 
and  very  finely  colored.  The  attitude  and  air  hit 
exactly.  The  features  too.  Perhaps,  (the  only  possible 
perhaps  my  ill-nature  can  stumble  on,)  the  expression  is 
too  blooming  and  less  mental  than  that  of  the  original.” 

“  Why  there — there  it  is  !  ”  cried  the  scholar,  his  face 
resuming  all  its  vexation.  “The  look  of  an  idiot  in¬ 
stead  of  a  genius.” 

“Not  quite  that  either  ;  only  of  a  Hebe  instead  of  a 
Juno.  More  like  our  Hedeia.” 

“  Tike  a  monster  !”  muttered  the  angry  artist. 

Oh  !  Hercules  !  oh  !  Hercules  !  ”  cried  the  sage. 
“  What  it  is  to  rub  a  sore  place  !  Better  break  a  man’s 
leg  than  blow  a  feather  on  his  razed  shin.  Had  (I  turning 
to  Theon,)  told  him  he  had  drawn  a  hump-backed 
Thersites,  he  would  have  blessed  me,  rather  than  for 
this  pretty  compliment  of  a  blooming-faced  Hebe.” 

“I  might  as  well  have  done  one  as  the  other  ;  they 
were  equally  like  the  original.” 

“I  must  bow  to  that  compliment,”  said  Teontium, 
laying  her  hand  on  her  breast,  and  inclining  with 
affected  gravity  to  the  painter. 

He  tried  in  vain  to  resist  the  laugh  ;  then  looking  to 
the  master, — “What  would  you  have  me  turn  it  to?” 

“As  you  object  to  a  Hebe,  to  a  philosopher  by  all 


H  3few  In  Htbens*  35 

means.  Silver  the  head  a  little,  it  may  be  an  admirable 
Epicurus.  ’  ’ 

“Nay!  don’t  make  the  madman,  furious,”  said 
Eeontium,  placing  her  hand  on  Metrodorus’s  shoulder  ; 
then  addressing  Theon, — “Pray,  young  man,  if  you 
want  to  be  a  philosopher,  never  find  an  eye  for  painting, 
a  finger  for  music,  or  a  brain  for  poetry.  Any  one  of 
these  will  keep  a  man  from  wisdom.” 

“  But  not  a  woman,  I  suppose,”  retorted  Metrodorus, 
“as  you  have  all  three.” 

“  Ready  at  compliments  this  morning  ;  but  if  you 
wanted  a  bow  for  this,  you  should  have  given  it  with  a 
more  gracious  face.  But  come,  my  poor  friend  ;  we 
will  try  and  put  you  in  good  humor  ;  nothing  like  a 
little  flattery  for  this.  Here,  my  young  Corinthian  !  ” 
(walking  to  the  other  side  of  the  room  to  a  newly  finished 
picture  that  stood  against  the  wall,  and  beckoning 
Theon  towards  her,)  “you  may  without  skill  perceive 
the  beauty  of  this  work,  and  the  excellence  of  the  like¬ 
ness. 

It  was  indeed  striking.  “  Admirable  I  ”  cried  Theon, 
after  a  long  gaze  of  admiration,  and  then  turning  to 
compare  it  with  the  original. 

“  A  little  flattered,  and  more  than  a  little,  I  fear,”  said 
Epicurus  with  a  smile,  as  he  moved  towards  them. 

“  Flattered  I  ”  exclaimed  Metrodorus  ;  “  a  Parrhasius 
could  not  flatter  such  an  original.” 

“You  see  how  my  scholars  spoil  me,”  said  the 
Gargettian  to  Theon. 

‘  ‘  But  you  think,  ’  ’  continued  Metrodorus,  ‘  ‘  that  I  have 
done  it  common  justice.” 

“  Much  more  than  common.  It  is  your  Master’s  self. 
The  dignity  of  his  figure,  the  grace  of  his  attitude,  the 
nobility  of  his  features,  the  divine  benignity  of  his  ex- 


36 


H  3Few  H)a^s  in  Htbens* 


pression.  Had  we  not  the  original  to  worship,  we  might 
worship  your  copy.” 

They  were  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  a  crowd  of 
disciples,  in  the  midst  of  whose  salutions  young  Sofron 
rushed  in  breathless  with  running,  and  convulsed  with 
laughter. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


“FDRHPARE  yourselves  !  prepare  yourselves  !”  cried 

i  the  panting  scholar.  “Oh!  Pollux!  such  a 
couple  !  The  contrast  might  convulse  a  Scythian.’’ 

“What  is  it?  What  is  the  matter?”  exclaimed  a 
dozen  voices. 

“I’ll  explain  directly;  give  me  breath;  and  yet  I 
must  be  quick,  for  they  are  close  on  my  heels.  Gryphus, 
the  cynic  ;  some  of  you  must  have  seen  him.  Well,  he 
is  coming  side  by  side  with  young  Eycaon.” 

“  Coming  here  !  ”  said  the  master,  smiling.  What 
can  have  procured  me  the  honor  of  such  a  visit?  ” 

“  Oh  !  your  fame,  of  course.” 

“I  suspect,  you  are  making  a  fool  of  the  old  Cynic,” 
said  Epicurus. 

“  Nay,  ifhebea  fool,  he  is  one  without  my  assistance. 
Eycaon  and  I  were  standing  on  the  steps  of  the 
Prytaneum,  disputing  about  something,  I  forget  what, 
when  Gryphus  came  by,  and  stopping  short  at  the  bottom 
of  the  steps,  ‘  Are  you  disciples  of  Epicurus,  of  Garget- 
tium?’  ‘We  are’,  answered  I,  for  Eycaon  only  stood 
staring  in  amazement.  ‘  You  may  show  me  the  way  to 
him,  then.’  ‘With  all  my  heart,’  I  again  replying, 
Eycaon  not  yet  finding  his  tongue.  ‘  We  are  at  present 
for  the  Garden,  and  shall  hold  it  an  honor  to  be 
conductors  to  so  extraordinary  a  personage.’  I  wanted 
to  put  him  between  us,  but  Eycaon  seemed  unambitious 

37 


38 


H  3few  H)a^0  in  Htbens* 

of  his  share  in  this  distinction,  for,  stepping  back,  he 
slipped  round  to  my  other  side.  Oh  !  Jupiter  !  I  shall 
never  forget  the  contrast  between  my  two  companions. 
The  rough,  dirty,  hairy  cynic  on  my  right  hand,  and 
the  fine  smooth,  delicate,  pretty  Aristippian  on  my  left. 
We  brought  the  whole  street  at  our  heels.  I^ycaon 
would  have  slunk  away,  but  I  held  him  tight  by  the 
sleeve.  When  we  were  fairly  in  the  Garden,  I  gave  them 
the  slip  at  a  cross-path,  and  ran  on  before  to  give  timely 
notice  as  you  see.  But  lo  !  behold  !  ” 

The  two  figures  now  appeared  at  the  door.  The  con¬ 
trast  was  not  much  less  singular  than  the  scholar  had  rep¬ 
resented  ;  and  there  was  a  sort  of  faint  prelude  to  a 
universal  laugh,  which,  how’ever,  a  timely  look  from 
the  master  instantly  quelled. 

Ivycaon,  from  the  lightness  of  his  figure,  and  delicacy 
of  his  features  and  complexion,  might  have  been  mis¬ 
taken  for  a  female  ;  his  skin  had  the  whiteness  of  the 
lily,  and  the  blushing  red  of  the  rose  ;  his  lips  the 
vermil  of  coral  ;  his  hair  soft  and  flowing  ;  in  textured 
silk  ;  in  color,  gold.  His  dress  was  chosen  with  studied 
nicety,  and  disposed  with  studied  elegance  ;  the  tunic  of 
the  whitest  and  finest  linen,  fastened  at  the  shoulder 
with  a  beautiful  onyx  ;  the  sash  of  exquisite  embroidery, 
and  the  robe  of  the  richest  Tyrian,  falling  in  luxuriant 
folds  from  the  shoulders,  and  over  the  right  arm,  which 
gracefully  sustained  its  length,  for  the  greater  convenience 
in  walking  ;  the  sandals  purple,  with  buttons  of  gold. 
Gryphus,  short,  square,  and  muscular  ;  his  tunic  of  the 
coarsest  and  not  the  cleanest  woollen,  in  some  places 
worn  thread-bare,  and  with  one  open  rent  of  considerable 
magnitude,  that  proved  the  skin  to  be  as  well  ingrained 
as  its  covering  ;  his  girdle,  a  rope  ;  his  cloak,  or  rather 
rag,  had  the  appearance  of  a  sail  taken  from  the  wreck 


H  jfcw  IDa^s  in  HtfDcns* 


39 


of  some  old  trader  ;  his  feet  bare,  and  thickly  powdered 
with  dust.  Of  his  face,  little  more  might  be  dis¬ 
tinguished  than  the  nose  ;  the  lower  part  being  obscured 
by  a  bushy  and  wide-spreading  beard,  and  the  upper  by 
a  profusion  of  long,  tangled,  and  grizzly  hair.  The 
wandering  disciples  opened  a  passage  for  this  singular 
intruder,  who,  without  looking  to  the  right  or  the  left, 
walked  on,  and  stopped  before  Epicurus. 

“I  suppose  you  are  the  master,  by  the  needless 
trouble  I  see  you  take,  in  coming  to  meet  me.” 

“  When  Gryphus  has  possibly  walked  a  mile  to  meet 
Epicurus,  Epicurus  may,  without  much  trouble,  walk  a 
step  to  meet  Gryphus.” 

”  [n  my  walk  of  a  mile,”  returned  the  cynic,”  there 
was  no  trouble  ;  I  took  it  for  my  own  pleasure.” 

”  And  my  walk  of  a  step  I  also  took  for  mine.” 

“  Aye,  the  pleasure  of  ceremony  !  ” 

“  I  may  hope,  then  this  your  visit  is  from  something 
more  than  ceremony  ;  perhaps  a  feeling  of  real  friend¬ 
ship  ;  or  as  a  mark  of  your  good  opinion.” 

“  I  hate  useless  words,”  returned  the  cynic,  “  and  am 
not  come  here  either  to  make  any,  or  hearken  to  any. 
I  have  heard  you  much  talked  of  lately.  Our  streets 
and  our  porticoes  buzz  eternally  with  your  name,  till 
now  all  wise  men  are  weary  of  it.  I  come  to  tell  you 
this,  and  to  advise  you  to  shut  the  gate  of  your  Garden 
forthwith,  and  to  cease  the  harangues  of  a  master,  since 
you  only  pass  for  a  philosopher  among  fools,  and  for  a 
fool  among  philosophers.  ’ ’ 

‘‘I  thank  you  for  your  honest  advice  and  information, 
my  friend  ;  but  as  the  object  of  a  master  is  not  to  teach 
the  wise,  but  only  the  unwise,  do  you  not  think  I  may 
still  harangue  among  fools  to  some  little  purpose. 


40 


H  3few  H>a^5  in  Htbens* 


though  Gryplms,  and  all  sages,  will  of  course,  justly  hold 
me  in  contempt?  ” 

‘‘And  so  that  fools  may  be  wise,  the  wise  are  to  be 
plagued  with  folly  ?  ’  ^ 

“  Nay,  you  would  surely  cease  think  that  folly  which 
could  make  a  fool  wise.” 

“  A  fool  wise  !  And  who  but  a  fool  would  think  that 
possible  ?  ” 

“  I  grant  it  were  difficult ;  but  may  it  not  also  some¬ 
times  be  difficult  to  discover  who  is  a  fool,  and  who  not? 
Among  my  scholars  there,  some  doubtless  may  be  fools, 
and  some  possibly  may  not  be  fools.” 

“No,”  interrupted  the  cynic,“or  they  would  not  be 
your  scholars.” 

‘  ‘  Ah  !  I  began  a  fool  myself !  Well  reminded  !  I 
had  forgot  that  was  one  of  our  premises.  But  then,  I 
being  a  fool,  and  all  my  scholars  being  fools,  I  do  not 
see  how  much  harm  can  be  done,  either  by  my  talking 
folly,  or  their  hearkening  to  it.” 

“No,  if  wise  men  were  not  forced  to  hearken  also.  I 
tell  you,  that  our  streets  and  our  porticoes  buzz  with 
your  name  and  your  nonsense.  Keep  all  the  fools  of 
Athens  in  your  Garden,  and  lock  the  gates,  and  you  may 
preach  folly  as  long  and  as  loud  as  you  please.” 

“I  have  but  one  objection  to  this,  namely,  that  my 
Garden  would  not  hold  all  the  fools  of  Athens.  Suppose, 
therefore,  the  wise  men,  being  a  smaller  body,  were  shut 
in  a  garden,  and  the  city  and  the  rest  of  Attica  left  for 
the  fools  !  ” 

“I  told  you,”  cried  the  cynic,  in  a  voice  of  anger, 
“  that  I  hated  useless  words.” 

“  Nay,  friend,  why  then  walk  a  mile  to  speak  advice 
to  me  ?  No  words  so  useless  as  those  thrown  at  a  fool.” 


41 


H  ifew  Daps  in  Htl^ens^ 

“Very  true,  very  true;’’  and  so  saying,  the  stranger 
turned  his  back  and  quitted  the  temple. 

“There,”  said  the  son  of  Neocles  to  his  smiling 
disciples,  “is  a  good  warning  to  any,  or  all  of  us,  who 
would  be  philosophers.” 

“Nay,  master,”  cried  Sofron,  “do  you  think  us  in 
danger  of  following  the  pleasant  example  of  this  savage? 
Do  you  indeed,  expect  to  see  Dycaon  there,  with  beard, 
head,  and  clothing,  after  the  fashion  of  Gryphus?  ” 

“Not  beard,  head,  and  clothing  perhaps,”  answered 
the  Gargettian  ;  ‘  ‘  pride,  vanity,  and  ambition,  may  take 
less  fearful  coverings  than  these.” 

‘  ‘  Pride,  vanity,  and  ambition  !  I  should  rather  suspect 
Gryphus  of  the  want  of  all  three.  ’  ’ 

“  Nay,  my  son,  believe  me,  all  those  three  qualities 
were  concerned  in  the  carving  of  those  three  frightful 
appendages  of  our  cynic’s  person.  Pride  need  not 
always  lead  a  man  to  cut  mount  Athos  in  two,  like 
Xerxes  ;  nor  ambition,  to  conquer  a  world,  and  weep 
that  there  is  yet  not  another  to  conquer,  like  Alexander  ; 
nor  vanity,  to  look  in  a  stream  at  his  own  face  till  he  fall 
in  love  with  it,  like  Narcissus.  When  we  cannot  cut  an 
Athos  we  may  leave  uncut  our  beard  ;  when  we  cannot 
mount  a  throne,  we  may  crawl  into  a  tub  ;  and,  when 
we  have  a  beauty,  we  may  increase  our  ugliness.  If  a 
man  of  small,  or  even  of  moderate  talents,  be  smitten 
with  a  great  desire  of  distinction,  there  is  nothing  too 
absurd,  perhaps  nothing  too  mischievous,  for  him  to 
commit.  Our  friend,  the  cynic,  happily  for  himself  and 
his  neighbors,  seems  disposed  to  rest  with  the  absurd. 
Erostratus  took  to  the  mischievous  —  to  eternize  his 
name  destroying  that  temple,  by  the  building  of  which 
Ctesiphon  immortalized  his.  Be  it  our  care  to  keep 
equally  clear  of  the  one  as  the  other.” 


42 


H  ifew  in  Htbens. 


“Do  you  then,”  asked  Theon,  “think  a  desire  of 
distinction  a  vicious  desire  ?  “ 

“  I  think  it  is  often  a  dangerous  desire,  and  very  often 
an  unhappy  one.” 

“But  surely  very  often  a  fortunate  one,”  said 
Ivcontium.  “  Without  it,  would  there  ever  have  been  a 
hero  ?  ’  ’ 

“And  perhaps”  returned  the  sage,  with  a  smile, 
“  the  world  might  have  been  as  happy  if  there  had  not.” 

“Well  without  arguing  for  an  Achilles,  would  there 
have  been  a  Homer  ?  ” 

“I  agree  with  you,”  replied  the  master,  more 
seriously.  “The  desire  of  distinction,  though  often  a 
dangerous,  and  often  an  unhappy  desire,  is  likewise  often, 
though  I  believe  here  somethnes  were  a  better  word,  a 
fortunate  one.  It  is  dangerous  in  the  head  of  a  fool  ; 
unhappy  in  that  of  a  man  of  moderate  abilities,  or  un¬ 
favorable  situation,  who  can  conceive  a  noble  aim,  but 
lacks  the  talent  or  the  means  neccessary  for  its  attain¬ 
ment.  It  is  fortunate  only  in  the  head  of  a  genius,  the 
heart  of  a  sage,  and  in  a  situation  convenient  for  its 
devolopment  and  gratification.  These  three  things  you 
will  allow  do  not  often  meet  in  one  person.” 

“Yet,”  said  Theon,  “how  many  great  men  has 
Athens  produced  !  ’  ’ 

“  But  it  is  not  a  consequent  that  they  were  happy.” 

“  Happy  or  not  happy,  who  would  refuse  their  fate  ?  ” 

“I  like  that  feeling,”  replied  the  Gargettian  ;  “nor 
do  I  dissent  from  it.  The  fate  of  greatness  will  always 
be  enviable,  even  when  the  darkest  storms  trouble  its 
course.  Well  merited  fame  has  in  itself  a  pleasure  so 
much  above  all  kinds  of  pleasure,  that  it  may  weigh  in 
the  balance  against  all  the  accumulated  evils  of 
mortality.  Grant  then,  our  great  men  to  have  been 


H  jfew  Dai^s  in  Htbens^ 


43 


fortunate  ;  are  they,  as  you  say,  so  many  ?  Alas  !  my 
son,  we  may  count  them  on  our  fingers.  A  generation, 
the  most  brilliant  in  genius,  leaves  out  of  its  thousands 
and  millions  but  three  or  four,  or  a  dozen,  to  the  wor¬ 
ship,  even  to  the  knowledge  of  futurity.” 

‘‘And  these,  only  these  three,  four,  or  a  dozen,  have 
a  right  to  the  desire  of  distinction  ?  ” 

“As  to  the  right,”  replied  the  sage,  playfully,  “I 
mean  not  to  dispute  that.  The  right  lies  with  all  men 
in  our  democracy  to  sit  in  a  tub,  or  to  walk  in  a  dirty 
tunic,  just  as  they  chose.” 

“But  you  will  allow  of  no  end  in  ambition  but  an 
absurd  one.  ’  ’ 

“  I  have  not  expressed  myself  well,  or  you  have  not 
understood  me  well,  if  you  draw  that  conclusion.  I 
surely  have  granted  our  great  men  to  have  had  great 
ends  of  ambition.” 

“  But  is  it  only  great  men,  or  men  destined  to  be 
great,  that  may  have  such  ends  ?  ” 

“I  allow  that  others  might  ;  I  only  said  that  they 
would  be  unhappy  in  consequence.  The  perfection  of 
wisdom,  and  the  end  of  true  philosophy,  is  to  propor¬ 
tion  our  wants  to  our  possessions,  our  ambitions  to  our 
capacities.” 

“Then”  cried  Metrodorus,  “I  have  substantially 
proved  myself  this  morning  to  be  no  philosopher,  when 
I  chose  a  study  beyond  the  reach  of  my  pencil.” 

“No,”  said  Teontium,  playfully  tapping  his  shoulder, 
“the  master  will  make  a  distinction  between  what  is 
beyond  the  reach  of  our  capacity,  and  what  is  beyond 
the  reach  of  our  practice.  Erostratus  might  never 
have  planned  the  edifice  he  destroyed  ;  Ctesiphon  could 
not  always  have  planned  it.”  The  smile  that  accom¬ 
panied  these  words,  lighted  one  yet  more  brilliant  in  the 


44 


H  ffew  Baps  in  Htbens* 


face  of  Metrodorus.  Theon  guessed  that  he  felt  more 
than  admiration  and  more  than  friendship  for  this 
female  disciple. 

“Your  remark  was  well  timed  and  well  pointed.” 
said  the  master,  “  and  had  saved  me  some  talking.” 

“I  am  not  sure  of  that,”  cried  Sofron,  stepping  for¬ 
ward  ;  “  for  though  keontium  has  so  nicely  worded  the 
distinction  between  want  of  capacity  and  want  of 
practice  in  the  general,  I  should  like  to  be  told,  how  a 
man  is  to  make  this  distinction  between  his  own  in  par¬ 
ticular  ?  For  instance,  I  have  a  fancy  to  turn  philosopher, 
and  supersede  my  master;  how  am  I  to  tell,  at  my  first 
non-plus  in  logic  or  invention,  whether  the  defect  be  in 
my  capacity  or  my  practice  ? 

“If  it  be  only  in  the  last,  I  apprehend  you  will  easily 
perceive  it ;  if  in  the  first  not  so  readily.  A  man,  if  he 
set  about  the  search,  will  quickly  discover  his  talents  ; 
he  may  continue  it  to  his  death  without  discovering  his 
deficiencies.  The  reason  is  plain  ;  the  one  hurts  our 
self-love,  the  other  flatters  it.” 

“  And  yet,”  interrupted  Theon,  “  I  think,  in  my  first 
interview  with  the  philosopher  of  Gargettium,  he  re¬ 
marked,  that  thousands  had  the  seeds  of  excellence  in 
them,  who  never  had  found  them  out.” 

“I  see  you  have  a  good  memory,”  returned  the 
master.  “I  did  say  so,  and  I  think  it  still.  Many 
might  have  been  heroes,  and  many  philosophers,  had 
they  had  a  desire  to  be  either  ;  had  accidents  or  am¬ 
bition  made  them  look  into  themselves,  and  inquire 
into  their  powers  ;  but  though  jewels  be  hid  in  a  sack 
of  oats,  they  will  never  be  found,  unless  the  oats  be 
shaken.  Remember,  however  we  are  now  speaking  of 
one  class  of  men  only,  the  ambitious  ;  and  the  ambitious 
will  never  have  any  seeds  in  them,  bad  or  good,  that  will 


H  ffew  Ba^s  in  Htbens* 


45 


not  generate  and  produce  their  proper  fruit  Ambition 
is  the  spur,  and  the  necessary  spur  of  a  great  mind  to 
great  action  ;  when  acting  upon  a  weak  mind  it  impels 
it  to  absurdity,  or  sours  it  with  discontent.’’ 

“Nay,  then,”  said  Sofron,“it  is  but  a  dangerous  inmate, 
as  minds  go  ;  and  I,  for  one,  had  better  have  none  of  it, 
for  I  doubt  I  am  not  born  to  be  an  Epicurus,  and  I  am 
certain  I  have  no  inclination  to  be  a  Gryphus.” 

“Well,”  said  the  master,  “  we  have  at  least  to  thank 
Gryphus  for  our  morning’s  dialogue.  If  any  of  us  wish 
to  prosecute  it  further,  we  may  do  it  over  our  repast  ; 
the  sun  has  reached  his  noon,  so  let  us  to  the  bath.” 

They  left  the  temple,  and  crossing  the  Garden  in  an 
opposite  direction  from  that  by  which  Theon  had  entered, 
soon  reached  a  gate  which,  to  his  surprise,  opened  on  a 
court  at  the  back  of  the  Gargettian’s  house,  the  same  in 
which  he  had  supped  the  preceding  evening. 


CHAPTER  V. 


HE  fervors  of  the  day  had  declined,  when  Theon 


1  issued  to  the  street  from  the  house  of  Epicurus  ;  at 
that  instant  he  met  in  the  face  his  friend  Cleanthes  ;  he 
ran  to  his  embrace  ;  but  the  young  stoic,  receding  with 
mingled  astonishment  and  horror — “Ye!  gods!  from 
the  house  of  Epicurus  ?  ” 

“I  do  not  marvel  at  your  surprise,”  returned  Theon, 

‘  ‘  nor,  if  I  recall  my  own  feelings  of  yesterday,  at  your 
indignation.” 

“Answer  me  quickly,”  interrupted  Cleanthes;  “is 
Theon  yet  my  friend  ?  ” 

“  And  does  Cleanthes  doubt  it  ?  ” 

“  What  may  I  not  doubt,  when  I  see  you  come  from 
such  a  mansion  ?  ” 

“Nay,  my  brother,”  said  Theon,  kindly  throwing 
his  arm  round  the  neck  of  his  friend,  and  drawing  him 
onwards,  “I  have  been  in  no  mansion  of  vice,  nor  of 
folly.” 

“  I  do  not  understand  you,”  returned  the  stoic,  but 
half  yielding  to  his  kindness  ;  “  I  do  not  know  what  to 
think  or  what  to  fear.” 

“Fear  nothing,  and  think  only  good,”  said  the 
Corinthian.  “True,  I  come  from  the  Garden  of 
pleasure,  where  I  have  heard  very  little  of  pleasure,  and 
a  very  great  deal  of  virtue.” 

“  I  see  how  it  is,”  returned  the  other  ;  “  you  have  lost 
your  principles,  and  I,  my  friend.” 


H  jfew  2)a^s  in  Htbens. 


47 


“I  do  not  think  I  have  lost  the  first,  and  I  am  very 
sure  you  have  not  lost  the  last.” 

“  No  !”  exclaimed  Clean thes  ;  “  but  I  tell  you,  yes 
and  his  cheeks  flushed,  and  his  eyes  flashed  with  indig¬ 
nation  :  “I  kave  lost  my  friends,  and  you  have  lost 
yours.  Go  !  ”  he  continued,  and  drew  himself  from  the 
arm  of  Theon  ;  —  “  Go  !  Cleanthes  hath  no  fellowship 
with  an  apostate  and  a  libertine.” 

”  You  wrong  me,  and  you  wrong  Epicurus,”  said  his 
friend,  in  a  tone  of  more  reproach  than  anger.  “  But  I 
cannot  blame  you  ;  yesterday  I  had  myself  been  equally 
unjust.  You  must  see  him,  you  must  hear  him, 
Cleanthes.  This  alone  can  undeceive  you  ;  can  con¬ 
vince  you  of  my  innocence  and  Epicurus’s  virtue.” 

”  Epicurus’s  virtue  ?  your  innocence  ?  What  is  Epi¬ 
curus  to  me  ?  What  is  he,  or  what  should  he  be  to  you  ? 
Your  innocence?  And  is  this  fastened  to  the  mantle  of 
Epicurus  ?  See  him  to  be  convinced  of  your  innocence  ?  ’  ’ 

”  Yes,  and  of  your  own  injustice.  Oh  !  Cleanthes, 
what  a  fool  do  I  now  know  myself  to  have  been  !  To 
have  listened  to  the  lies  of  Timocrates  !  To  have 
believed  all  his  absurdities  !  Come,  my  friend  !  come 
with  me,  and  behold  the  face  of  the  master  he 
blasphemes!” 

“Theon,  one  master,  and  but  one  master,  is  mine. 
To  me,  whether  Timocrates  exaggerate  or  even  lie,  it 
matters  nothing  whatever.” 

“  It  does,  or  it  should,”  said  the  Corinthian.  “  Will 
a  disciple  of  Zeno  not  open  his  eyes  to  truth  ?  Not  see 
an  error,  and  atone  for  it,  by  acknowledging  it  ?  I  do 
not  ask  you  to  be  the  disciple  of  Epicurus  ;  I  only  ask 
you  to  be  just  to  him,  and  that  for  your  own  sake,  more 
than  mine,  or  even  his.” 

“  I  see  you  are  seduced  ;  I  see  you  are  lost,”  cried  the 


48 


H  jfew  in  Htbens* 


stoic,  fixing  on  him  a  look,  in  which  sorrow  struggled 
with  indignation,  “  I  thought  myself  a  stoic,  but  I  feel 
the  weakness  of  a  woman  in  my  eyes.  Thou  wert  as 
my  brother,  Theon  ;  and  thou,  thou  also  art  beguiled 
by  the  Siren  ;  left  virtue  for  pleasure  !  Zeno  for  Kpi- 
curus  !  ” 

“  I  have  not  left  Zeno.” 

“You  cannot  follow  both  ;  you  cannot  be  in  the  day 
and  under  the  night  at  one  and  the  same  time.” 

“I  tell  you,  there  is  no  night  in  the  Garden  of 
Epicurus.  ’  ^ 

“Is  there  no  pleasure  there?”  cried  the  stoic,  his 
mouth  and  brows  curling  with  irony. 

“  Yes,  there  is  pleasure  there  ;  the  pleasure  of  wisdom 
and  virtue.” 

“Ah!  have  you  learned  the  Gargettian  subtleties  so 
soon?  You  have  doubtless  already  worshipped  virtue 
under  the  form  of  the  courtezan  Eeontium  ;  and  wisdom 
under  that  of  her  master  and  paramour,  the  son  of 
Neocles.” 

“  How  little  you  know  of  either  !  ”  returned  Theon. 
“  But  I  knew  as  little  yesterday.” 

Cleanthes  stopped.  They  were  before  the  stoic  portico. 
“  Farewell  I  Return  to  your  Garden  I  Farewell  1  ” 

“We  do  not  yet  part,”  said  Theon.  “Zeno  is  still 
my  master.”  He  followed  his  friend  up  the  steps.  A 
crowd  of  disciples,  were  assembled,  waiting  the  arrival 
of  their  master.  Some,  crowded  into  groups,  listened 
to  the  harangues  of  an  elder  or  more  able  scholar  :  others, 
walking  in  parties  of  six  or  a  dozen,  reasoning,  debating, 
and  disputing  ;  while  innumerable  single  figures,  un¬ 
disturbed  by  the  buzz  around  them,  leaned  against  the 
pillars,  studying  each  from  a  manuscript,  or  stood  upon 
the  steps  with  arms  folded,  and  heads  dropped  on  their 


H  ffew  H)aps  in  Htbens* 


49 


bosoms  wrapped  in  silent  meditations.  At  the  entrance 
of  Cleanthes,  the  favored  pupil  of  their  master,  the 
scholars  made  way,  and  the  loud  hum  slowly  hushed 
into  silence.  He  advanced  to  the  center,  and  the  floating- 
crowd  gathered  and  compressed  into  a  wide  and  deep 
circle.  All  eyes  bent  on  the  youth  in  expectant 
curiosity,  for  his  countenance  was  disturbed,  and  his 
manner  abrupt. 

Cleanthes  was  of  the  middle  size ;  so  slender  that  you 
wondered  at  the  erectness  of  his  gait,  and  activity  of  his 
motions.  His  neck  was  small ;  his  shoulders  falling  ; 
his  head  elegantly  formed  ;  the  hair  smooth  and  close 
cut ;  the  forehead  narrow,  and  somewhat  deeply  lined  for 
one  so  young  ;  the  eye-brows  marked  and  even,  save  a 
slight  bent  upward,  as  if  by  a  frown,  above  the  nose.  The 
eyes  blue  ;  but  their  gaze  was  too  earnest,  and  their  spirit 
too  clear  to  leave  any  of  the  melting  softness  so  usual 
with  that  color  ;  and  yet  there  were  moments  when  this 
would  appear  in  them  ;  and  when  it  did,  it  went  to  the 
soul  of  him  who  observed  it ;  but  such  moments  were  short 
and  rare.  The  nose  was  finely  and  perhaps  too  delicately 
turned  ;  the  mouth  mild  and  always  in  repose.  The 
cheeks  were  thin,  and  though  slightly  flushed,  the  face 
had  a  look  of  paleness,  until  enthusiasm  awoke  and  deep¬ 
ened  all  its  dyes.  The  whole  expression  had  more  spirtu- 
ality  and  variety,  and  the  manner  more  agitation,  than 
you  would  have  looked  for  in  the  first  and  favorite  pupil 
of  Zeno.  The  youth  turned  a  rapid  glance  round  the 
circle  ;  he  threw  out  his  right  arm  ;  the  mantle  dropped 
from  his  shoulder,  and  in  a  varied,  piercing,  and  yet 
melodious  voice,  he  began  : 

“My  friends  !  my  brothers  !  disciples  of  Zeno  and  of  vir¬ 
tue  !  Give  me  your  ears,  and  awake  your  faculties  ! 
How  shall  I  tell  the  dangers  that  surround  you  ?  How 


50 


H  jfew  H)aps  in  Htbens* 


shall  I  paint  the  demon  that  would  ensnare  you? 
Timocrates  hath  escaped  from  his  enchantment,  and 
told  us  that  riot  and  reveling  were  in  his  halls  ;  that 
impiety  was  in  his  mouth  ;  vice  in  his  practice ; 
deformity  in  his  aspect :  and  we  thought  that  none  but 
souls  born  for  error,  already  steeped  in  infamy,  or  sunk 
in  effeminacy,  could  be  taken  in  his  toils  and  seduced  by 
his  example.  But,  behold  ?  he  hath  changed  his  counte¬ 
nance  !  he  hath  changed  his  tongue  !  amid  his  revels  he 
he  hath  put  on  the  garb  of  decency  !  in  his  riot  he  talks 
of  innocence  !  in  his  licentiousness  of  virtue  !  Behold 
the  youth  !  they  run  to  him  with  greedy  ears  !  they 
throng  his  Garden  and  his  porticoes.  Athens,  Attica, 
Greece,  all  are  the  Gargettian’s  Asia,  Italy,  the  burning 
Afric  and  the  frozen  Scythia — all,  all  send  ready  pupils 
to  his  feet.  Oh  !  what  shall  we  say  ?  Oh  !  how  shall 
we  stem  the  torrent  ?  Oh  !  how  shall  we  fence  our  hearts 
— how  our  ears  from  the  song  of  the  Siren  ?  To  what 
pilot  shall  we  trust,  that  we  may  pass  the  shores  in  safety 
without  dashing  on  the  rocks?  But  why  do  I  speak? 
Why  do  I  inquire?  Why  do  I  exhort?  Is  not  the 
contagion  already  among  us  ?  In  the  school  of  Zeno, 
in  this  portico,  in  this  circle,  are  there  not  waverers  ? 
Yea,  are  there  not  apostates  ?  ” 

Emotion  choked  his  utterance ;  he  paused,  and 
glanced  his  kindled  eyes  around  the  audience.  Every 
breath  was  held  in  expectation  ;  each  looked  on  the 
other  in  doubt,  dismay,  and  inquiry.  Theon’s  heart 
beat  quick  and  high  ;  he  advanced  one  step,  and  raised 
his  arm  to  speak  ;  but  Clean thes,  gathering  his  breath, 
again  in  a  rapid  voice  continued  : — 

“Does  this  silence  speak  conscious  guilt,  or  startled 
innocence?  The  last;  I  will  believe  the  last.  Praise 
be  to  the  gods !  praise  to  our  guardian,  Minerva  ! 


H  JFew  in  Htbens* 


51 


praise  to  our  great,  our  glorious  master,  there  are  yet 
some  sons  left  to  Athens  and  to  Greece,  who  shall 
respect,  follow,  and  attain  to  virtue  !  Some  choice  and 
disciplined  souls,  who  shall  stand  forth  the  light  and 
ornament  of  their  age,  and  whose  names  shall  be  in 
honor  with  those  yet  unborn.  Rouse,  rouse  up  your 
energies  !  Oh  !  be  firm  to  Zeno,  and  to  virtue  !  I  tell 
you  not — Zeno  tells  you  not,  that  virtue  is  found  in 
pleasure  and  repose.  Resistance,  energy,  watchfulness, 
patience,  and  endurance  !  these,  these,  must  be  your 
practice,  must  be  your  habit,  ere  you  can  reach  the  per¬ 
fection  of  your  nature.  The  ascent  is  steep,  is  long, 
and  arduous.  To-day  you  must  ascend  a  step,  and  to¬ 
morrow,  a  step,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  yet 
shall  you  be  far  from  the  summit,  from  rest,  and  from 
security.  Does  this  appal  you  ?  Does  this  disgust  you? 
Go  then  to  the  Garden  !  Go  to  the  man  of  Gargettium 
— he  who  calls  himself  philosopher,  and  who  loves  and 
teaches  folly  !  Go,  go  to  him,  and  he  shall  encourage 
and  soothe  you.  He  shall  end  your  pursuit,  and  give 
you  your  ambition  !  He  shall  show  you  virtue  robed  in 
pleasure,  and  lolling  in  ease  !  He  shall  teach  you 
wisdom  in  a  song,  and  happiness  in  impiety  !  But  I 
am  told  that  Timocrates  hath  lied  ;  that  Epicurus  is 
not  a  libertine  ;  nor  Leontium  a  prostitute  ;  nor  the 
youth  of  the  Garden  the  ministers  to  their  lusts.  Be  it 
so.  Timocrates  must  answer  to  himself,  whether  his 
tale  be  the  outponrings  of  indignant  truth,  or  the  subtle 
inventions  of  malevolence  :  with  his  own  conscience  be 
the  secret ;  to  us  it  matters  nothing.  We,  who  have 
naught  to  do  with  the  doctrines  of  Epicurus,  have 
naught  to  do  with  his  practice. 

“  Eet  him  who  would  vindicate  the  one,  vindicate 
the  other.  Eet  him  come  forth  and  say,  that  the  master 


52 


H  Jfew  in  Htbens* 


in  the  Garden  is  not  only  pure  in  action,  but  perfect  in 
theory.  I^et  him  say,  that  he  worships  virtue  as  virtue, 
and  shuns  vice  as  vice.  lyct  him  say,  that  he  arms  the 
soul  with  fortitude,  ennobles  it  with  magnanimity, 
chastens  it  with  temperance,  enlarges  it  with  beneficence, 
perfects  it  with  justice  ;  and  let  him  moreover  say  that 
he  does  this,  not  that  the  soul,  so  schooled  and  invigo¬ 
rated,  may  lie  in  the  repose  of  virtue,  but  that  it  may 
exult  in  its  honor,  and  be  fitted  for  its  activity.  Fie  on 
that  virtue  which  prudence  alone  directs  !  which  teaches 
to  be  just  that  the  laws  may  not  punish,  or  our  neighbors 
revenge  ;  to  be  enduring,  because  complainings  were 
useless,  and  weakness  would  bring  on  us  insult  and 
contempt  ;  to  be  temperate,  that  our  body  may  keep  its 
vigor,  our  appetites  retain  theii  acuteness,  and  our 
gratifications  and  sensualities  their  zest ;  tc  serve  our 
friends,  that  they  may  serve  us  ;  our  country,  because 
its  defence  and  well-being  comprehends  our  own. 
Why,  all  this  is  well  ;  but  is  there  nothing  more  ?  Is 
it  our  ease  alone  we  shall  study,  and  not  our  dignity  ? 
Though  all  my  fellow-men  were  swept  awa}^,  and  not  a 
mortal  nor  immortal  eye  were  left  to  approve  or  con¬ 
demn,  should  I  not  here,  within  this  breast,  have  a  judge 
to  dread,  and  a  friend  to  conciliate?  Prudence  and 
pleasure!  Was  it  from  such  principles  as  these,  that  the 
virtue  of  Solon,  of  Miltiades,  of  Aristides,  of  Socrates, 
of  Plato,  of  Xenophon,  of  all  our  heroes  and  all  our  sages, 
has  its  spring  and  its  nourishment  I  Was  it  such  virtue 
as  this  that  in  Lycurgus  put  by  the  offered  crown  ?  that 
in  Leonidas  stood  at  Thermopylae?  that  in  the  dying 
Pericles  gloried  that  he  had  never  caused  a  citizen  to 
mourn  ?  Was  it  such  virtue  as  this  that  spoke  in  the 
philosopher  Socrates  before  his  judges?  that  sustained 
him  in  his  prison,  and  when  the  door  was  open,  and  the 


53 


H  ifew  Da^s  in  Htbens^ 

sails  of  the  ready  ship  unfurled,  made  him  rather  prefer 
death  to  flight  —  his  dignity  to  his  existence  ?  ” 

Again,  the  young  orator  paused,  but  his  indignant 
soul  seemed  still  to  speak  from  his  flashing  eyes.  His 
cheeks  glowed  as  fire,  and  the  big  drops  rolled  from  his 
forehead.  At  this  moment  the  circle  behind  him  gave 
way,  and  Zeno  advanced  into  the  midst  ;  he  stood  by  the 
head  and  shoulders,  above  the  crowd  ;  his  breast,  broad 
and  manly  ;  his  limbs,  cast  in  strength  and  symmetry  ; 
his  gait,  erect,  calm,  and  dignified  ;  his  features,  large, 
grand  and  regular,  seemed  sculptured  by  the  chisel  for  a 
colossal  divinity  ;  the  forehead,  broad  and  serene,  was 
marked  with  the  even  lines  of  wisdom  and  age  ;  but  no 
harsh  wrinkles  nor  playing  muscles  disturbed  the  repose 
of  his  cheeks,  nor  had  sixty  years  touched  with  one 
thread  of  silver  his  close  black  hair  ;  the  eyes,  dark  and 
full,  fringed  with  long  straight  lashes,  looked  in  severe 
and  steady  wisdom  from  under  their  correct  and  finely 
arched  brows  ;  the  nose  came  from  the  forehead  straight 
and  even  ;  the  mouth  and  chin  were  firm  and  si¬ 
lent.  Wisdom  undisturbable,  fortitude  unshakable,  self- 
respect,  self-possession,  and  self-knowledge  perfected 
were  in  his  face,  his  carriage  and  his  tread. 

He  stopped  before  the  youth,  who  had  turned  at  his 
approach.  “My  son,”  fixing  his  calm  gaze  on  the 
working  countenance  of  his  pupil,  “what  hath  dis¬ 
turbed  thy  soul?”  Clean thes  laid  a  hand  on  his  labor¬ 
ing  breast;  he  made  one  violent  efibrt  for  composure  and 
speech  ;  it  failed.  The  hot  blood  forsook  his  cheeks  ;  it 
rushed  again — again  it  fled.  He  gasped,  and  dropped 
fainting  at  the  feet  of  his  master. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


HEON  rushed  forward,  he  knelt.  He  raised  the 


1  head  of  his  friend  ;  breathless,  agitated,  terrified, 
he  called  his  name  with  the  piercing  cry  of  agony  and 
despair.  All  was  commotion  and  confusion.  The 
scholars  pressed  forward  tumultuously — but  Zeno,  rais¬ 
ing  his  arm,  and  looking  steadily  round,  cried  “  Si¬ 
lence  !”  The  crowd  fell  back  and  the  stillness  of  night 
succeeded.  Then  motioning  the  circle  towards  the 
street  to  give  way  and  admit  the  air,  he  stooped  and 
assisted  Theon  to  support  his  reviving  pupil.  Cleanthes 
raised  his  head,  turned  his  eyes  wildly  round,  and  then 
fixed  them  on  his  master. 

“Gently,”  said  Zeno,  as  the  youth  struggled  in  their 
arms  for  recollection,  “gently,  my  son.”  But  he  made 
the  effort  ;  he  gained  his  feet,  and  throwing  out  his  arm 
to  a  pillar  near  him,  turned  his  head  aside,  and,  for 
some  moments,  combatted  with  his  weakness  in  silence. 
His  limbs  still  trembled,  and  his  face  had  yet  the  hues 
of  death,  when,  pressing  his  hand  with  convulsive 
strength  against  the  pillar,  he  proudly  drew  up  his 
form,  turned  his  eyes  again  upon  his  master,  and  mus¬ 
tering  his  broken  respiration, — “Blame  me,  but  do  not 
despise  me.” 

“  I  shall  do  neither,  my  son  ;  the  weakness  was  in  the 
body,  not  the  mind.” 

“There  has  been  want  of  command  in  both.  I  ask 
not  to  be  excused.”  Then,  turning  to  his  companions. 


54 


H  3few  In  Htbens^ 


55 


“I  may  be  a  warning,  if  not  an  example.  The  Spartans 
expose  the  drunkenness  of  their  Helots  to  confirm  their 
youth  in  sobriety  ;  let  the  weakness  of  Cleanthes  teach 
the  sons  of  Zeno  equanimity;  and  let  them  say,  ‘If  in 
the  Portico  weakness  be  found,  what  shall  it  be  in  the 
Garden?’  But,”  he  continued,  addressing  his  master, 
“  will  Zeno  pardon  the  scholar  who,  while  enforcing  his 
nervous  doctrines  on  others,  has  swerved  from  them 
himself?” 

“Thou  judges!  thy  fault  as  thou  shouldst  judge  it,” 
returned  Zeno  ;  “but  comfort,  my  son.  He  who  knows, 
and  knowing,  can  acknowledge  his  deficiency,  though 
his  foot  be  not  on  the  summit,  yet  hath  he  his  eye  there. 
But,  say  the  cause,  and  surely  it  must  be  a  great  one 
that  could  disturb  the  self-possession  of  my  disciple.” 

“  The  cause  was  indeed  a  great  one  ;  no  less  than  the 
apostacy  of  a  scholar  from  Zeno  to  Kpicurus.  ” 

Zeno  turned  his  eyes  round  the  circle  ;  there  was  no 
additional  severity  in  them,  and  no  change  in  his  man¬ 
ner  or  in  his  deep,  sonorous  voice  when,  addressing 
them,  he  said  : 

“If  one,  or  more,  or  all  of  my  disciples,  be  wearied  of 
virtue  let  them  depart.  I^et  them  not  fear  upbraidings 
or  exhortations  ;  the  one  were  useless  to  you,  the  other 
unworthy  of  me.  He  who  sighs  for  pleasure  the  voice 
of  wisdom  can  never  reach,  nor  the  power  of  virtue 
touch.  In  this  portico  truth  will  never  be  softened  to 
win  a  sickly  ear — nor  the  severity  of  virtue  will  it  ever 
be  veiled  to  win  a  feeble  heart.  He  who  obeys  in  act 
and  not  in  thought  ;  he  who  disciplines  his  body  and 
uot  his  mind  ;  he  who  hath  his  foot  in  the  portico,  and 
his  heart  in  the  Garden  ;  he  hath  no  more  to  do  with 
Zeno  than  a  wretch  sunk  in  all  the  effeminacy  of  a 
Median  or  the  gross  debauchery  of  a  Scythian.  There 


56 


H  JFew  in  Htbens* 


is  no  mid-way  in  virtue — no  halting  place  for  the  soul 
but  perfection.  You  must  be  all,  or  you  may  be  noth¬ 
ing.  You  must  determine  to  proceed  to  the  utmost,  or 
I  encourage  ye  not  to  begin.  I  say  to  ye,  one  and  all, 
give  me  your  ears,  your  understandings,  your  souls,  and 
your  energies — or  departP'' 

Again  he  looked  round  upon  his  scholars.  A  long 
and  deep  silence  succeeded  ;  when  young  Theon,  break¬ 
ing  through  his  awe  and  timidity  advanced  into  the 
centre,  and,  craving  sufferance  with  his  hand,  addressed 
the  assembly  : 

“Though  I  should  forfeit  the  esteem  of  Zeno,  and  the 
love  of  his  disciples,  I  have  no  choice  but  to  speak. 
Honor  and  justice  demand  this  of  me  ;  first,  to  remove 
suspicion  from  this  assembly  ;  next  to  vindicate  the 
character  of  a  sage  whom  the  tongue  of  a  liar  hath  tra¬ 
duced  ;  and,  lastly,  to  conciliate  my  own  esteem,  which 
I  value  beyond  even  the  esteem  of  the  venerated  Zeno 
and  of  my  beloved  Clean thes.”  He  paused  and  turning 
to  Zeno, — “With  permission  of  the  master,  I  would 
speak.  ’  ^ 

“Speak,  my  son  ;  we  attend.”  Zeno  retreated  among 
his  disciples  ;  and  Cleanthes,  anxious  and  agitated  for 
his  friend,  placed  himself  behind  the  screen  of  a  pillar. 
With  a  varying  cheek,  and  a  tremulous  voice,  the  youth 
began  : 

“  In  addressing  an  assembly  accustomed  to  the  manly 
elocution  of  a  Zeno  and  the  glowing  eloquence  of  a 
Cleanthes,  I  know  I  shall  be  forgiven  by  my  com¬ 
panions,  and  I  hope  even  by  my  severe  master,  the 
blushes  and  hesitations  of  inexperience  and  timidity.  I 
open  my  mouth  for  the  first  time  in  public ;  and  in 
what  a  public  is  it?  Cet  not,  therefore,  my  confusion 
be  thought  the  confusion  of  guilt ;  but,  as  it  truly  is,  of 


H  ffew  in  Htbens* 


57 


bashful  inexperience.  First,  to  remove  suspicion  from 
this  assembly  ;  let  not  the  scholars  look  with  doubt  on 
each  other  ;  let  not  the  master  look  with  doubt  on  his 
scholars.  I  am  he  who  have  communed  with  the  son  of 
Neocles  ;  I  am  he  who  have  entered  the  Garden  of 
pleasure  ;  I  am  he  whom  Cleanthes  hath  pointed  at  as 
the  apostate  from  Zeno  to  Epicurus.”  A  tumult  arose 
among  the  scholars.  Surprise,  indignation  and  scorn 
variously  looked  from  their  faces  and  murmured  from 
their  tongues. 

“Silence!”  cried  Zeno,  casting  his  severe  glance 
round  the  circle.  “  Young  man,  proceed.” 

This  burst  of  his  audience  rather  invigorated  than 
dashed  the  youth.  He  freely  threw  forth  his  arm  ;  his 
eyes  lighted  with  fire,  and  the  ready  words  flowed  from 
his  lips  :  “I  merit  not  the  hiss  of  scorn,  nor  the  burst  of 
indignation.  Desist,  my  brothers,  till  my  artless  tale 
has  been  told — till  you  have  heard,  not  my  apology,  but 
my  justification.  Yesterday  at  this  hour  I  left  the 
Portico,  heated  to  fury  by  the  philippic  of  Timocrates 
against  Epicurus  and  his  disciples  ;  indignant  at  the  city 
that  did  not  drive  such  a  teacher  from  its  walls  ;  against 
the  gods,  who  did  not  strike  him  with  their  thunders  I 

“Thus  venting  my  feelings  in  soliloquy,  after  a  long 
ramble  I  seated  myself  on  the  banks  of  Cephisus,  and 
was  awakened  from  a  reverie  by  the  approach  of  a 
stranger.  His  aspect  had  the  wisdom  of  a  sage,  and  the 
benignity  of  a  divinity.  I  yielded  him  the  homage  of 
youthful  respect  and  admiration  ;  he  condescended  to 
address  me.  He  gave  me  the  precepts  of  virtue  with 
the  gentle  and  honeyed  tongue  of  kindness  and  per¬ 
suasion.  I  listened,  I  admired,  and  I  loved.  We  did 
not  conclude  our  walk  until  sunset  ;  he  bade  me  to  his 
supper.  I  entered  his  house,  and  he  told  me  I  beheld 


58 


H  jfew  in  Utbcns. 


Bpicurus.  Could  I  have  drawn  back  ?  Should  I  have 
drawn  back?  No — my  heart  answers  no  !  Your  suffer¬ 
ance,  my  friends — do  not  interrupt  me  !  Do  not  call  me 
an  apostate  !  In  the  presence  of  the  gods,  in  the  pres¬ 
ence  of  my  master,  whom  I  fear  as  them,  in  the 
presence  of  my  own  conscience,  which  I  fear  more  than 
both,  I  swear  that  I  am  not  so  !  I  mean  not  to  explain, 
or  to  justify  the  philosophy  of  Bpicurus — I  know  but 
little  of  it.  I  only  know,  I  only  affirm,  that  his  tongue 
has  given  new  warmth  to  my  love  of  virtue  and  new 
vigor  to  my  pursuit  of  it ;  I  only  affirm  that  persuasion, 
simple,  ungarnished  persuasion  is  in  his  lips,  benevo¬ 
lence  in  his  aspect,  urbanity  in  his  manners,  generosity, 
truth  and  candor  in  his  sentiments  ;  I  only  affirm  that 
order,  innocence  and  content  are  in  his  halls  and  in  his 
Garden,  peace  and  brotherly  love  with  his  disciples,  and 
that  in  the  midst  of  these  he  is  himself  the  philosopher, 
the  parent,  the  friend.  I  see  the  sneer  of  contempt 
upon  your  lips,  my  brothers — alas  !  even  on  the  unper¬ 
turbed  countenance  of  my  master  I  read  displeasure.” 

“No,  my  son,”  said  Zeno,  “thou  dost  not.  “Con¬ 
tinue  thy  artless  tale.  If  there  be  error  it  lies  with  the 
deceiver,  not  the  deceived.  And  you,  my  sons  and 
disciples,  banish  from  your  faces  and  your  breasts  every 
thought  and  every  expression  unworthy  of  your  honest 
companion  and  your  upright  sect.  For  remember,  if 
to  abhor  falsehood  and  device  be  noble,  to  distrust  truth 
and  innocence  is  mean.  My  son,  proceed.” 

“Thanks  for  your  noble  confidence,  my  master.  It 
makes  me  proud,  for  I  deserve  it.  Yes  !  even  should  I 
— as  I  perceive  you  apprehend — be  deceived,  I  feel  that 
this  open  confession  of  my  present  perfect  conviction  is 
honorable  both  to  myself  and  to  Zeno.  It  proves  that 
in  his  school  I  have  learned  candor,  though  I  have  yet 


H  jfew  Daps  in  Htbens* 


59 


to  learn  discernment.  And,  yet,  methinks,  however 
imperfect  my  youthful  discernment,  it  is  not  now  in 
error.  If  ever  I  saw  simple,  unadorned  goodness  ;  if 
ever  I  heard  simple,  unadorned  truth  it  is  in,  it  is  from 
Epicurus.  Again  your  sufferance,  my  friends !  Again 
your  sufferance,  my  master  !  I  am  not,  I  wish  not  to  be 
a  disciple  of  the  Garden  ;  virtue  may  be  in  it — excuse 
me,  virtue  is  in  it  ;  but  there  is  a  virtue  in  the  Portico, 
which  I  shall  worship  to  my  latest  hour.  Here,  here, 
I  first  learned,  here  I  first  saw  to  what  a  glorious  height 
of  greatness  a  mortal  might  ascend  !  how  independent 
he  might  be  of  fortune,  how  triumphant  over  fate. 
Young,  innocent  and  inexperienced,  I  came  to  Athens 
in  search  of  wisdom  and  virtue.  ‘Attend  all  the  schools, 
and  fix  with  that  which  shall  give  you  the  noblest  aims,’ 
said  my  father,  when  he  gave  me  his  parting  blessing. 
He,  being  an  academician,  I  had  of  course  somewhat 
imbibed  the  principles  of  Plato  and  conceived  a  love  for 
his  school.  On  first  hearing  Crates  I,  therefore,  thought 
myself  satisfied.  Accident  made  me  acquainted  with  a 
young  Pythagorean.  I  listened  to  his  simple  precepts. 
I  loved  his  virtues,  and  almost  fell  into  his  superstitions. 
From  these  Theophrastus  awakened  me  ;  and  I  was 
nearly  fixed  as  a  Peripatetic  when  I  met  the  eloquent, 
enthusiastic  Cleanthes.  He  brought  me  to  the  Portico, 
where  I  found  all  the  virtues  of  all  the  schools  united 
and  crowned  with  perfection. 

“But  when  I  preferred  Zeno,  I  did  not  despise  my 
former  masters.  I  still  sometimes  visit  the  Eyceum  and 
the  Academy,  and  still  the  young  Pythagorean  is  my 
friend.  A  pure  mind  should,  I  think,  respect  virtue 
wherever  it  be  found  ;  and  if  in  the  Eyceum  and  the 
Academy,  why  not  in  the  Garden  ?  Zeno,  in  teaching 
austerity,  does  not  teach  intolerance  ;  much  less,  I  am 


6o 


H  ffew  Da^s  in  Htbens* 


sure,  does  he  teach  ingratitude  ;  and  if  I  did  not  feel  for 
the  sage  of  Gargettium  both  respect  and  love,  I  were  the 
most  ungrateful  soul  in  Athens  ;  and  if,  feeling  both,  I 
feared  to  acknowledge  both,  I  were  the  meanest.  And 
now,  my  brothers,  ask  yourselves  what  would  be  your 
indignation  at  the  youth  who  for  his  vices  being  driven 
from  this  Portico  should  run  to  the  Lyceum,  and  accuse 
to  the  sons  of  Aristotle  our  great  Zeno  of  that  sensuality 
and  wickedness  which  had  here  wrought  his  own  dis¬ 
grace  and  his  own  banishment?  Would  ye  not  hate 
such  a  wretch  ?  Would  ye  not  loathe  him?  Would  ye 
not  curse  him  ?  My  brothers,  this  day  have  I  learned 
such  a  wretch  to  be  Timocrates  !  Is  he  here  ?  I  hope 
he  is.  I  hope  he  hears  me  denounce  him  for  a  defamer 
and  an  ingrate.” 

“ ’Tis  false!”  cried  Timocrates,  bursting  in  fury 
from  the  crowd.  “  ’Tis  false  !  I  swear- - ” 

“Beware  of  perjury  !”  said  a  clear,  .silver  voice  from 
without  the  circle.  “Give  way,  Athenians!  ’Tis  for 
me  to  take  up  this  quarrel  !” 

The  crowd  divided.  Every  eye  turned  towards  the 
opening.  Theon  shouted  with  triumph.  Timocrates 
stood  blank  with  dismay — for  they  recognized  the  voice 
and  the  form  of  the  son  of  Neocles. 


CHAPTER  VIL 


The  sage  advanced  towards  Theon  ;  he  laid  a  hand 
on  either  of  his  shoulders,  and  kissing  his  glowing 
forehead. 

“Thanks  to  my  generous  defender.  Your  artless 
tale,  my  son,  if  it  has  not  gained  the  ear  of  Zeno  hath 
fixed  the  heart  of  Epicurus.  Oh  !  ever  keep  this  candor 
and  this  innocence  !” 

He  turned  his  benign  face  round  the  circle. 

“  Athenians — I  am  Epicurus  !” 

This  name,  so  despised  and  execrated,  did  it  not  raise 
a  tumult  in  the  assembly?  No.  Every  tongue  was 
chained,  every  breath  suspended,  every  eye  rivetted  with 
wonder  and  admiration.  Theon  had  said  the  truth — it 
was  the  aspect  of  a  sage  and  a  divinity.  The  face  was  a 
serene  mirror  of  a  serene  mind  ;  its  expression  spoke 
like  music  to  the  soul.  Zeno’s  was  not  more  calm  and 
unrufiled.  But  here  was  no  severity,  no  authority,  no 
reserve,  no  unapproachable  majesty,  no  repelling  superi¬ 
ority  ;  all  was  benevolence,  mildness,  openness  and 
soothing  encouragement.  To  see  was  to  love  ;  and  to 
hear  was  to  trust. 

Timocrates  shrunk  from  the  eye  of  his  master.  It  fell 
upon  him  with  a  fixed  and  deep  gaze,  that  struck  more 
agony  into  his  guilty  soul  than  had  the  flash  of  a 
Cleanthes  or  the  glance  of  a  Zeno.  The  wretch  stink 
beneath  it — he  crouched  ;  he  trembled  ;  he  looked  as  if 
he  would  have  supplicated  mercy.  But  his  tongue 

6r 


62 


H  ffew  Da^s  in  Htbena^ 


cleaved  to  his  palate,  and  shame  withheld  him  from 
quite  dropping  to  his  knees. 

“Go  !  I  will  spare  thee.  Give  way,  Athenians  !” 

The  scholars  opened  a  passage.  Again  the  sage 
waved  his  hand,  and  the  criminal  slunk  away. 

“Your  pardon,  Zeno,”  said  the  Garget  tian,  “I  know 
the  youth — he  is  not  worthy  to  stand  in  the  Portico.” 

“I  thank  you,”  returned  the  master,  “and  my  dis¬ 
ciples  thank  you.  The  gods  forbid  that  we  should  har¬ 
bor  vice,  or  distrust  virtue.  I  see,  and  I  recant  my 
error  ;  henceforth,  if  I  cannot  respect  the  teacher,  I  shall 
respect  the  man.” 

“  I  respect  both,”  said  Epicurus,  reclining  his  head  to 
the  stoic.  “I  have  long  known  and  admired  Zeno  ;  I 
have  often  mixed  with  the  crowd  in  his  Portico,  and 
felt  the  might  of  his  eloquence.  I  do  not  expect  a 
similar  return  from  him,  nor  do  I  wish  to  allure  his 
scholars  to  my  Garden.  I  know  the  severity  of  their 
master,  and  the  austerity,  may  I  say,  the  intolerance  of 
his  rules.  But  for  one,”  and  he  laid  his  hand  on  the 
head  of  Theon,  “for  this  one  I  would  entreat  clemency. 
Eet  not  that  be  imputed  to  him  as  a  crime,  which  has 
been  the  work  of  accident  and  of  Epicurus  ;  and  let  me 
also  say  for  him,  as  well  as  for  myself,  he  has  lost  in  the 
Garden  no  virtues,  if  a  few  prejudices.” 

“Son  of  Neocles,”  said  Zeno,  “I  feared  you  yester¬ 
day,  but  I  fear  you  doubly  to-day.  Your  doctrines  are 
in  themselves  enticing,  but,  coming  from  such  lips,  I 
fear  they  are  irresistible.  Methinks  I  cast  a  prophet’s 
eye  on  the  map  of  futurity,  and  I  see  the  sage  of  Gar- 
gettium  standing  on  the  pinnacle  of  fame  and  a  world  at 
his  feet.  The  world  is  prepared  for  this  ;  the  Mace¬ 
donian,  when  he  marched  our  legions  to  the  conquest  of 
Persia  struck  the  death-blow  at  Greece.  Persian  luxury 


H  ffew  tn  Htbens* 


63 


and  Persian  effeminacy,  which  before  crept,  now  come 
with  strides  upon  us.  Our  youth,  dandled  in  the  lap  of 
indulgence,  shall  turn  with  sickened  ears  from  the 
severe  moral  of  Zeno  and  greedily  suck  in  the  honeyed 
philosophy  of  Epicurus.  You  tell  me  that  you,  too, 
teach  virtue.  It  may  be  so.  I  do  not  see  it,  but  it  may 
be  so.  I  do  not  conceive  how  there  can  be  two  virtues, 
nor  yet  how  two  roads  to  the  same.  This,  however,  I 
shall  not  argue.  I  will  grant  that  in  your  system,  as 
elucidated  by  your  practice,  there  may  be  something  to 
admire  and  much  to  love.  But  when  your  practice 
shall  be  dead,  and  your  system  alone  shall  survive, 
where  then  shall  be  the  security  of  its  innocence — 
where  the  antidote  of  its  poison?  Think  not  that  men 
shall  take  the  good  and  not  the  evil ;  soon  they  shall 
take  the  evil  and  leave  the  good.  They  shall  do  more  ; 
they  shall  pervert  the  very  nature  of  the  good  and  make 
of  the  whole  evil  unmixed.  Soon,  in  the  shelter  of 
your  bowers,  all  that  is  vicious  shall  find  a  refuge. 
Effeminacy  shall  steal  in  under  the  name  of  ease  ;  sen¬ 
suality  and  debauchery  in  the  place  of  innocence  and 
refinement ;  the  pleasures  of  the  body  instead  of  those  of 
the  mind. 

‘  ‘  Whatever  may  be  your  virtues  they  are  but  the  vir¬ 
tues  of  temperament,  not  of  discipline  ;  and  such  of 
your  followers  as  shall  be  like  you  in  temperament  may 
be  like  you  in  practice  ;  but  let  them  have  boiling  pass¬ 
ions  and  urgent  appetites,  and  your  doctrines  shall  set 
no  fence  against  the  torrent,  shall  ring  no  alarm  to  the 
offender.  Tell  us  not  that  that  is  right  which  admits  of 
evil  construction — that  that  is  virtue  which  leaves  an 
open  gate  to  vice.  I  said  that,  with  the  eye  of  a 
prophet,  I  saw  your  future  fame  ;  but  such  fame  as  I 
foresee  can  but  ill  satisfy  the  ambition  of  a  sage.  Your 


64 


H  ifew  in  Htbens* 


Garden  shall  be  crowded,  but  it  shall  be  disgraced  ;  and 
your  name  shall  be  in  every  mouth,  but  every  mouth 
shall  be  unworthy  that  speaks  it ;  nations  shall  have 
you  in  honor,  but  ere  it  is  so  they  shall  be  in  ruins  ;  our 
degenerated  country  shall  worship  you,  and  expire  at 
your  feet.  Zeno  meantime  may  be  neglected,  but  he 
shall  never  be  slandered.  The  Portico  may  be  forsaken, 
but  shall  never  be  disgraced  ;  its  doctrines  may  be  dis¬ 
carded,  but  shall  never  be  misconstrued.  I  am  not 
deceived  by  my  present  popularity.  There  is  no  school 
now  in  such  repute  as  mine — but  I  know  this  will  not 
last.  The  iron  and  the  golden  ages  are  run  ;  youth  and 
manhood  are  departed,  and  the  weakness  of  old  age 
steals  upon  the  world.  But,  oh  !  son  of  Neocles,  in  this 
gloomy  prospect  a  proud  comfort  is  mine — I  have  raised 
the  last  bulwark  to  the  fainting  virtue  of  man  and  the 
departing  glory  of  nations.  I  have  done  more :  When 
the  virtue  and  glory  of  nations  shall  be  dead,  and  when, 
in  their  depraved  generations,  some  solitary  souls,  born 
for  better  things,  shall  see  and  mourn  the  vices  around 
them,  here,  in  the  abandoned  Portico,  shall  they  find 
a  refuge  ;  here,  shutting  their  eyes  upon  the  world,  they 
shall  learn  to  be  a  world  to  themselves  ;  here,  steeled  in 
fortitude,  they  shall  look  down  in  high,  unrufiled  maj¬ 
esty,  on  the  slaves  and  tyrants  of  the  earth.  Epicurus  ! 
when  thou  canst  say  this  of  the  Garden,  then,  and  not 
till  then,  call  thyself  a  sage  and  a  man  of  virtue.’’ 

He  ceased  ;  but  his  full  tones  seemed  yet  to  sound  in 
the  ears  of  his  listening  auditors.  There  was  a  long 
pause,  when  the  Gargettian,  in  notes  like  the  breathing 
flutes  of  Arcadia,  began  his  reply  : 

“Zeno,  in  his  present  speech,  has  rested  much  of  the 
truth  of  his  system  on  its  expediency  ;  I,  therefore,  shall 
do  the  same  by  mine.  The  door  of  my  Garden  is  ever 


H  iFew  in  Htbens* 


65 


open,  and  my  books  are  in  the  hands  of  the  public  ;  to 
enter,  therefore,  here,  into  the  detail  or  the  expounding 
of  the  principles  of  my  philosophy  were  equally  out  of 
place  and  out  of  season.  ‘  Tell  us  not  that  that  is  right 
which  admits  of  evil  construction  ;  that  that  is  virtue 
which  leaves  an  open  gate  to  vice.’  This  is  the  thrust 
which  Zeno  now  makes  at  Epicurus  ;  and  did  it  hit,  I 
grant  it  were  a  mortal  one.  From  the  flavor  we  pro¬ 
nounce  of  the  fruit ;  from  the  beauty  and  the  fragrance, 
of  the  flower  ;  and  in  a  system  of  morals,  or  of  philoso¬ 
phy,  or  of  whatever  else,  what  tends  to  produce  good  we 
pronounce  to  be  good  :  what  to  produce  evil,  we  pro¬ 
nounce  to  be  evil.  I  might  indeed  support  the  argument 
that  our  opinion  with  regard  to  the  first  principles  of 
morals  has  naught  to  do  with  our  practice  ;  that  whether 
I  stand  my  virtue  upon  prudence  or  propriety  or  justice 
or  self-love,  that  my  virtue  is  still  one  and  the  same  ; 
that  the  dispute  is  not  about  the  end,  but  the  origin  ; 
that  of  all  the  thousands  who  have  yielded  homage  to 
virtue,  hardly  one  has  thought  of  inspecting  the  pedestal 
she  stands  upon  ;  that  as  the  mariner  is  guided  by  the 
tides,  though  ignorant  of  their  causes,  so  does  a  man 
obey  the  rules  of  virtue,  though  ignorant  of  the  prin¬ 
ciples  on  which  those  rules  are  founded  ;  and  that  the 
knowledge  of  those  principles  would  affect  the  conduct 
of  the  man  no  more  than  acquaintance  with  the  causes 
of  the  tides  would  affect  the  conduct  of  the  mariner. 
But  this  I  shall  not  argue  ;  in  doing  so,  I  might  seem 
but  to  fight  you  flying. 

‘‘  I  shall  meet  your  objection  in  the  face.  And  I  say 
that,  allowing  the  most  powerful  effects  to  spring  from 
the  first  grounds  of  a  moral  system  (the  worst  or  the  best), 
that  mine,  if  the  best,  is  to  be  so  judged  by  the  good 
it  does  and  the  evil  it  prevents,  must  be  ranked  among 


66 


H  ifew  in  Htbens^ 


the  best.  If,  as  you  say,  and  I  partly  believe  it,  the  iron 
and  the  golden  ages  are  past,  the  youth  and  the  man" 
hood  of  the  world,  and  that  the  weakness  of  old  age  is 
creeping  on  us,  then — ^as  you  also  say — our  youth,  dan¬ 
dled  in  the  lap  of  indulgence,  shall  turn  with  sickened 
ears  from  the  severe  moral  of  Zeno,  and  then  /  say  that 
in  the  Garden,  and  in  the  Garden  only,  shall  they  find  a 
food,  innocent,  yet  adapted  to  their  sickly  palates  ;  an 
armor,  not  of  iron  fortitude  but  of  silken  persuasion, 
that  shall  resist  the  progress  of  their  degeneracy  or 
throw  a  beauty  even  over  their  ruin.  But,  perhaps, 
though  Zeno  should  allow  this  last  effect  of  my  philoso¬ 
phy  to  be  probable  he  will  not  approve  it ;  his  severe 
eye  looks  with  scorn,  not  with  pity  on  the  follies  and 
vices  of  the  world.  He  would  annihilate  them,  change 
them  to  their  opposite  virtues,  or  he  would  leave  them 
to  their  full  and  natural  sweep.  ‘  Be  perfect,  or  be  as 
you  are.  I  allow  of  no  degrees  of  virtue,  so  care  not  for 
the  degrees  of  vice.  Your  ruin,  if  it  must  be,  let  it  be 
in  all  its  horrors,  in  all  its  vileness  ;  let  it  attract  no 
pity,  no  sympathy ;  let  it  be  seen  in  all  its  naked 
deformity  and  excite  the  full  measure  of  its  merited 
abhorrence  and  disgust.'  Thus  says  the  sublime  Zeno, 
who  sees  only  man  as  he  should  be. 

“Thus  says  the  mild  Epicurus,  who  sees  man  as  he 
is  :  With  all  his  weakness,  all  his  errors,  all  his  sins, 
still  owning  fellowship  with  him,  still  rejoicing  in  his 
welfare,  and  sighing  over  his  misfortunes.  I  call  from 
my  Garden  to  the  thoughtless,  the  headstrong  and  the 
idle,  ‘Where  do  ye  wander,  and  what  do  ye  seek?  Is  it 
pleasure?  Behold  it  here!  Is  it  ease?  Enter  and 
repose  1’  Thus  do  I  court  them  from  the  table  of  drunk¬ 
enness  and  the  bed  of  licentiousness.  I  gently  awaken 
their  sleeping  faculties,  and  draw  the  veil  from  their 


H  jfew  Bai^s  in  Htbens* 


67 


understandings, — ‘My  sons!  do  you  seek  pleasure?  I 
seek  her  also.  Let  us  make  the  search  together.  You 
have  tried  wine,  you  have  tried  love  ;  you  have  sought 
amusement  in  reveling,  and  forgetfulness  in  indolence. 
You  tell  me  you  are  disappointed  ;  that  your  passions 
grew — even  while  you  gratified  them  ;  your  weariness 
increased — even  while  you  slept.  Let  us  try  again. 
Let  us  quiet  our  passions,  not  by  gratifying  them,  but 
subduing  them  ;  let  us  conquer  our  weariness,  not  by 
rest,  but  by  exertion.’  Thus  do  I  win  their  ears  and 
their  confidence.  Step  by  step  I  lead  them  on.  I  lay 
open  the  mysteries  of  science  ;  I  expose  the  beauties  of 
art ;  I  call  the  graces  and  the  muses  to  my  aid — the 
song,  the  lyre  and  the  dance.  Temperance  presides  at 
the  repast,  innocence  at  the  festival.  Disgust  is  changed 
to  satisfaction.  Listlessness  to  curiosity.  Brutality  to 
elegance.  Lust  gives  place  to  love.  Bacchanalian 
hilarity  to  friendship. 

“Oh!  tell  me  not,  Zeno,  that  the  teacher  is  vicious 
who  washes  depravity  from  the  youthful  heart;  who 
lays  the  storm  of  its  passions,  and  turns  all  its  sensibili¬ 
ties  to  good.  I  grant  that  I  do  not  look  to  make  men 
great,  but  to  make  men  happy.  To  teach  them  that,  in 
the  discharge  of  their  duties  as  sons,  as  husbands,  as 
fathers,  as  citizens,  lies  their  pleasure  and  their  interest ; 
and  when  the  sublime  motives  of  Zeno  shall  cease  to 
affect  an  enervated  generation,  the  gentle  persuasions  of 
Epicurus  shall  still  be  heard  and  obeyed.  But  you 
warn  me  that  I  shall  be  slandered,  my  doctrines  misin¬ 
terpreted,  and  my  school  and  my  name  disgraced.  I 
doubt  it  not.  What  teacher  is  safe  from  malevolence — 
what  system  from  misconstruction?  And  does  Zeno 
really  think  himself  and  his  doctrines  secure?  He 
knows  not,  then,  man’s  ignorance  and  man’s  folly. 


68 


H  ffew  H)aps  in  Htbens* 


Some  few  generations,  when  the  amiable  virtues  of 
Epicurus  and  the  sublime  excellence  of  Zeno  shall  live 
no  longer  in  remembrance  or  tradition,  the  fierce  or 
ambitious  bigots  of  some  new  sect  may  alike  calumniate 
both — proclaim  the  one  for  a  libertine  and  the  other  for 
a  hypocrite. 

“But  [  will  allow  that  I  am  more  open  to  detraction 
than  Zeno — that  while  your  school  shall  be  abandoned 
mine  shall  more  probably  be  disgraced.  But  it  will  be 
the  same  cause  that  produces  the  two  effects.  It  will  be 
equally  the  degeneracy  of  man  that  shall  cause  the  dis¬ 
carding  of  your  doctrines,  and  the  perversion  of  mine. 
Why,  then,  should  the  prospect  of  the  future  disturb 
Epicurus  more  than  Zeno?  The  fault  will  not  lie  with 
me  any  more  than  you,  but  with  the  vices  of  my  follow¬ 
ers,  and  the  ignorance  of  my  judges.  I  follow  my 
course — guided  by  what  I  believe  to  be  wisdom,  with 
the  good  of  man  at  my  heart,  adapting  my  advice  to  his 
situation,  his  disposition  and  his  capacities.  My  efforts 
may  be  unsuccessful,  my  intentions  may  be  calumni¬ 
ated,  but  as  I  know  these  to  be  benevolent,  so  I  shall 
continue  them  unterrified  and  unrufiled  by  reproaches, 
unchilled  by  occasional  ingratitude  and  frequent  disap¬ 
pointment.” 

He  ceased,  and  again  laying  his  hand  on  the  shoulder 
of  Theon,  led  him  to  his  master. 

“I  ask  not  Zeno  to  admire  me  as  a  teacher,  but  let 
him  not  blame  this  scholar  for  loving  me  as  a  man.” 

“I  shall  not  blame  him,”  said  the  stoic.  “But  I 
wish  that  I  may  not  soon  distrust  him — I  wish  he  may 
not  soon  forget  Zeno  and  forsake  the  Portico.” 

The  shades  of  evening  now  fell  on  the  city,  and  the 
assembly  divided. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


The  sun  was  in  its  fervor,  when  Theon  issued  from 
one  of  the  public  baths.  He  was  not  disposed  for 
rest,  yet  the  heat  of  the  streets  was  insufferable.  “I 
will  seek  the  Garden,”  he  thought,  “and  loiter  in  the 
cool  shades  until  the  master  join  me.”  Reaching  the 
house  of  the  Gargettian,  and  the  entrance  to  the  Garden 
being  shorter  through  it  than  by  the  public  gate,  he 
entered,  and  sought  the  passage  he  had  before  traversed. 

He,  however,  took  a  wrong  one,  and,  after  wandering 
some  time,  opened  a  door,  and  found  himself  in  a 
library. 

Epicurus  was  sitting  in  deep  study,  with  his  tablets 
before  him,  his  pen  in  one  hand,  his  forehead  supported 
on  the  other.  Metrodorus,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
room,  was  engaged  in  transcribing. 

Theon  stopped,  and,  making  a  short  apology,  hastily 
retired.  “  Stay  !”  cried  the  master.  Theon  again  en¬ 
tered,  but  did  not  advance  much  within  the  threshold. 

“  When  I  bade  you  stay,  I  did  not  mean  to  fix  you  as 
doorkeeper.  Come  in,  and  shut  the  door  behind  you.” 

Theon  joyfully  obeyed,  and  hurried  to  seize  the 
extended  hand  of  the  sage. 

“Since  you  have  intruded  on  the  sanctuary,  I  shall 
not  drive  you  out.”  He  motioned  the  youth  to  a  place 
on  his  couch.  “And  now,  what  pretty  things  am  I  to 
say  to  you  for  your  yesterday’s  defence  of  the  wicked 
Gargettian?  You  should  have  come  home  with  me  last 

69 


70 


H  3Few  5)aps  in  Htbens* 


night,  when  we  were  both  hot  from  the  combat,  and 
then  I  could  have  made  you  an  eloquent  compliment  in 
full  assembly  at  the  Symposium,  and  you  would  as 
eloquently  have  disclaimed  it  with  one  of  your  modest 
blushes.  ’  ’ 

“Then,  truly,  if  the  master  had  such  an  intention  I 
am  very  glad  I  did  not  follow  him.  But  I  passed  the 
evening  at  my  own  lodgings,  with  my  old  friend 
Cleanthes.’’ 

“Trying  to  talk  him  into  a  good  humor  and  charity, 
was  it  ?’  ^ 

“ Something  so.” 

“And  you  succeeded?” 

“Why,  I  don’t  know.  He  did  not  leave  me  in  worse 
humor  than  he  came.” 

“Nay,  then  it  must  have  been  in  better.  An  expla¬ 
nation  always  approaches  or  widens  the  differences  of 
opinion  between  friends.” 

“Yes,  but  we  also  entered  into  argument.” 

“Dangerous  ground  that,  to  be  sure.  And  your  fight, 
of  course,  ended  in  a  drawn  battle?” 

“You  pay  me  more  than  a  merited  compliment,  in 
concluding  that  to  be  a  thing  of  course.” 

“  Nay,  your  pardon  !  I  pay  you  anything  but  a  com¬ 
pliment.  It  is  not  that  I  conclude  your  rhetoric  and 
your  logic  equal,  but  your  obstinacy  and  your  vanity.” 

“Do  you  know,  I  don’t  think  myself  either  obstinate 
or  vain?”  said  Theon,  smiling. 

“Had  I  supposed  you  did,  I  might  not  have  seen 
occasion  to  give  you  the  information.” 

“  But  on  what  grounds  do  you  think  me  obstinate  and 
vain  ?” 

“Your  years  ;  your  years.  And  do  you  think  there  is 
a  man  under  twenty  that  is  not  both?” 


H  ffcw  in  Htbens* 


71 


“Why,  I  should  think  an  old  man,  at  least,  more 
obstinate  than  a  young  one.” 

“I  grant  you,  when  he  is  obstinate,  which  is  pretty 
often,  but  not  quite  always  ;  and  when  he  is  vain,  the 
same.  But  whilst  many  old  men  have  vanity  and  obsti¬ 
nacy  in  the  superlative  degree,  all  young  men  have 
those  qualities  in  the  positive.  I  believe  your  share  to 
be  tolerably  moderate,  but  do  not  suppose  that  you  have 
no  share  at  all.  Well,  and  now  tell  me,  was  it  not  a 
drawn  battle?” 

“I  confess  it  was.  At  least,  we  neither  of  us  con¬ 
vinced  the  other.” 

“  My  son,  it  would  have  added  one  more  to  the  seven 
wonders  if  you  had.  I  incline  to  doubt,  if  two  men,  in 
the  course  of  an  olympiad,  enter  on  an  argument  from 
the  honest  and  single  desire  of  coming  at  the  truth,  or 
if,  in  the  course  of  a  century,  one  man  comes  from  an 
argument  convinced  by  his  opponent.” 

“Well,  then,  if  you  will  allow  me  no  credit  for  not 
being  convinced,  you  may,  at  least,  for  my  not  being 
silenced,  I  so  young  an  arguer  and  Cleanthes  so  prac¬ 
ticed  a  one  !” 

“You  broke  the  ice  beforehand,  yesterday,  in  the 
Portico,”  said  the  philosopher,  tapping  his  shoulder. 
“After  that  generous  instance  of  confidence,  I  shall  not 
marvel  if  you  now  find  a  tongue  upon  all  proper  occa¬ 
sions.  And,  trust  me,  the  breaking  of  the  ice  is  a  very 
important  matter.  Many  an  orator  has  made  but  one 
spring  to  the  land,  and  his  legs,  after  he  had  taken 
courage  to  make  the  first  stroke.  Cleanthes  himself 
found  this.  You  know  his  history  ?  He  first  appeared 
in  Athens  as  a  wrestler,  a  stranger  to  philosophy  and 
learning  of  all  kinds.  In  our  streets,  however,  the  buzz 
of  it  could  not  fail  to  reach  him.  He  ran  full  speed 


72 


H  3Few  H)a^6  in  Htbens^ 


into  the  school  of  Crates.  His  curiosity,  joined  to  his 
complete  ignorance,  gave  him  so  singular  an  appearance, 
and  produced  from  him  so  many  simple  questions,  and 
blundering  replies,  that  he  received  from  his  fellow 
disciples  the  nickname  of  the  Ass.  But  the  ass  perse¬ 
vered,  and  soon  after  entering  the  Portico,  he  applied 
with  such  intense  diligence  to  the  unraveling  the  mys¬ 
teries  of  Zeno’s  philosophy  that  he  speedily  secured  the 
esteem  of  his  master  and  the  respect  of  his  companions. 
But  his  timidity  was  for  some  time  extreme,  and  proba¬ 
bly  nothing  but  a  suddeu  excitement  could  have  enabled 
him  to  break  through  it.  This,  however,  accidentally 
occurred,  and  he  is  now  the  ready  and  powerful  orator 
that  you  know  him.” 

“I  have  often  heard,”  said  Theon,  “and  really  not 
without  some  scepticism,  the  change  that  a  few  years 
have  wrought  in  Cleanthes,  a  brawny  wrestler  I  Who 
could  believe  it — and  a  dull,  ignorant  Barbarian  !” 

“The  world  always  adds  marvel  to  the  marvelous, 
A  braw7iy  wrestler  he  never  was,  though  certainly  some¬ 
thing  stouter  and  squarer  in  person  than  he  is  now  ;  and 
though  ignorant  he  was  not  dull.  Intense  application, 
and,  some  say,  the  fasting  of  poverty,  as  well  as  temper¬ 
ance,  rapidly  reduced  his  body  and  spiritualized  his 
mind.” 

“The  fasting  of  poverty?”  cried  Theon.  “Do  you 
believe  this?” 

“  I  fear  it  is  possible,”  said  the  master.  “At  least  it 
is  asserted  that  he  possessed  but  four  drachmas  when  he 
left  the  school  of  wrestling  for  that  of  philosophy  ;  and 
it  does  not  well  appear  that  he  now  follows  any  other 
trade  than  that  of  a  scholar  ;  one  which  certainly  brings 
very  little  nourishment  to  the  body,  whatever  it  may  do 
to  the  mind.” 


H  Ifew  H)a^s  in  Htbens^  73 

‘‘  But  his  master  ;  do  you  think  Zeno  would  suffer  him 
to  want  the  necessaries  of  life?’’ 

‘‘The  real  necessaries,  somehow  or  other,  he  certainly 
has  ;  but  I  can  believe  he  will  make  very  few  serve,  and 
procure  those  few  with  some  difficulty,  rather  than  be 
indebted  even  to  his  master.” 

“Or  his  friend  !”  said  Theon. 

“Nay,  remember,  you  are  not  a  friend  of  very  long 
standing,  and  something  his  junior  in  years.” 

“  But  should  that  prevent  him  from  giving  his  confi¬ 
dence  on  such  an  occasion?” 

“  Perhaps  not,  but  allow  something  to  the  stoic  pride.” 

“I  can  allow  nothing  to  it  here.” 

“  No  ;  because  it  touches  your  own.  '‘Thus  do  I  tread 
on  the  pride  of  Plato^''  said  Diogenes,  setting  his  foot  on 
the  robe  of  the  academic.  ‘  Yes^  with  the  greater  pride 
of  Diogenes^''  returned  Plato.  But  I  have  made  you 
grave,  which  was  not  my  intention.  Metrodorus,  how 
go  you  on  ?” 

“Writing  the  last  word — there!  And  now,”  rising 
and  advancing  towards  Theon,  “let  me  embrace  the 
youth  who  so  nobly  took  up  the  vindication  of  my 
insulted  master.  Perhaps  you  may  not  know  how 
peculiarly  I  am  indebted  to  you.  Timocrates  is  the 
brother  of  Metrodorus.” 

“How  1” 

“I  blush  to  own  it.” 

“You  need  not  blush,  my  loved  son  ;  you  have  done 
more  than  a  brother’s  duty  towards  him,  and  more  than 
a  disciple’s  duty  towards  me.  “I  suppose,”  turning  to 
Theon,  “as  you  are  a  stoic,  you  have  not  read  the  able 
treatises  of  Metrodorus  in  support  of  my  doctrines,  and 
defence  of  my  character.  In  the  last,  indeed,  he  has 
done  more  than  I  wished.” 


74 


H  3few  Da^s  in  Htbens* 


“  I  own  I  have  not — but  I  will  read  them.”  “What  I 
In  the  face  of  Zeno?” 

“  Aye  !  And  of  the  whole  Portico  !” 

“We  need  not  doubt  the  young  Corinthian’s  courage,’^ 
said  Metrodorus,  “after  his  noble  confidence  yesterday.” 

“I  see  the  master  has  not  been  silent,”  returned 
Theon,  “and  that  he  has  given  me  more  praise  than  is 
my  due.” 

“Metrodorus  can  tell  you  that  is  not  my  custom,” 
said  the  Gargettian.  “  By  Pollux  !  if  you  continue  your 
visits  to  the  Garden,  you  must  look  to  be  handled  very 
roughly.  I  aim  the  blow  at  every  fault  I  see,  and  I 
have  a  very  acute  pair  of  eyes.  I  find  out  the  most  secret 
sins  ;  turn  the  souls  of  my  scholars  inside  out ;  so  be 
warned  in  time  !” 

“  I  do  not  fear  you,”  returned  the  Corinthian. 

“Not  fear  me,  you  rogue?” 

“No  ;  I  love  you  too  well.  But,”  continued  Theon, 
“let  me  now  make  my  acknowledgments  to  the  master 
for  his  coming  forward  so  seasonably  yesterday,  and  giv¬ 
ing  me  the  victory.  How  you  astonished  me  !  I  al¬ 
most  took  you  a  second  time  for  a  divinity.” 

“I  will  tell  you  how  it  happened,”  returned  Epicurus. 
“Chancing  to  be  called  into  the  street  yesterday,  just 
after  you  left  the  house,  I  saw  you  meeting  with 
Cleanthes  ;  and  guessing  from  his  first  address,  that  you 
would  have  to  stand  a  siege,  I  followed  you  to  the  Por¬ 
tico,  and  took  my  place  unnoticed  among  the  crowd, 
ready,  if  occasion  should  require,  to  offer  my  succor.” 

‘  ‘  And  you  heard,  then,  all  that  passed  ?’  ’ 

“I  did.” 

“I  beg  your  pardon  for  the  digression,”  said  Theon  ; 
“  but  I  think  you  have  more  forbearance  and  more  can¬ 
dor  than  any  man  I  ever  heard  of.  ’  ’ 


H  jfew  in  Htbens* 


75 


“If  it  be  so,  these  useful  qualities  have  not  been 
attained  without  much  study  and  discipline — for  Zeno 
is  mistaken  in  thinking  all  my  virtues  the  children  of 
temperament.  I  very  early  perceived  candor  to  be  the 
quality  the  most  indispensable  in  the  composition  of  a 
philosopher,  and  therefore  very  early  set  my  whole 
efforts  to  the  attaining  of  it.  And  when  once  I  fairly 
engaged  in  the  work,  I  did  not  find  it  either  long  or 
difficult.  I  had  naturally  a  mild  temper  and  a  sensitive 
heart,  and  these  gifts  were  here  of  inconceivable  use  to 
me.  Feeling  kindly  towards  my  fellow-creatures,  I  could 
the  easier  learn  to  pity  rather  than  hate  their  faults  ;  to 
smile,  rather  than  frown,  at  their  follies.  This  was  a 
great  step  gained,  but  the  next  was  more  difficult — to  be 
slow  in  pronouncing  what  zs  a  fault,  and  what  is  a  folly. 
Our  superstition  would  haunt  with  the  furies  the  mau 
who  should  take  his  sister  to  wife,  while  the  customs  of 
Bgypt  would  commend  him.  How  has  the  astronomer 
been  laughed  at,  who  made  the  earth  levolve  around 
the  stationary  sun  ;  and  yet  who  can  say  but  the  age 
may  come,  when  this  shall  be  established  as  a  truth? 
Prejudices,  when  once  seen  as  prejudices,  are  easily 
yielded.  The  difficulty  is,  to  come  at  the  knowledge  of 
them.  A  thousand  lectures  had  I  read  to  myself,  ere  I 
could  calmly  say,  upon  all  occasions  :  It  does  not  follow 
that  the  thing  A,  because  /  t/iizik  it  is ;  and  till  I  could 
say  this,  I  never  presumed  to  call  myself  a  philosopher. 
When  I  had  schooled  myself  into  candor,  I  found  I  was 
possessed  of  forbearance  ;  for,  indeed,  it  is  hardly  pos¬ 
sible  to  possess  the  one  without  the  other.” 

“I  cannot  understand,”  said  Theon,  “how,  with 
your  mildness,  your  candor,  and  your  good  humor;  you 
have  so  many  enemies.” 

“Am  I  not  the  founder  of  a  new  sect?” 

“  Yes  ;  but  so  have  been  many  others.” 


76 


H  ifew  Da^s  In  Htbens. 

“And  you  think  I  have  more  enemies  than  any?  If 
it  be  so,  perhaps  in  those  peaceful  qualities  you  have 
enumerated  you  may  seek  the  cause.  Remember  the 
cynics  and  stoics  (and  I  believe  most  of  my  enemies  are 
either  among  them  or  of  their  making),  do  you  think 
any  of  these  three  unpresuming  virtues  would  secure 
their  approbation  ?  They  do  not  love  to  see  a  man  take 
the  place  of  a  philosopher  without  the  airs  of  one,  and, 
as  you  may  perceive,  I  want  these  most  entirely.  Then 
you  must  remember  also  my  popularity  ;  for,  of  course, 
my  mildness,  candor  and  good  humor,  along  with  other 
agreeable  virtues  which  shall  be  nameless,  help  to  se¬ 
cure  me  a  thousand  friends  ;  and  he  who  has  many 
friends  must  have  many  enemies — for  you  know  he 
must  be  the  mark  of  envy,  jealousy  and  spleen.’’ 

“I  cannot  endure  to  think  that  it  should  be  so,” 
replied  Theon. 

“Much  less  can  I,”  said  Metrodorus. 

“My  sons,  never  pity  the  man  who  can  count  more 
than  a  friend  for  every  enemy,  and  I  do  believe  that  I 
can  do  this.  Yes,  my  young  stoic,  Zeno  may  have  fewer 
enemies,  and  as  many  disciples,  but  I  doubt  if  he  have 
so  many  devoted  children  as  Epicurus.” 

“I  know  he  has  not,”  cried  Metrodorus,  curling  his 
lip  in  proud  scorn. 

“You  need  not  look  so  fierce  upon  your  knowledge,” 
said  the  master,  smiling. 

“You  are  too  mild,  too  candid,”  returned  the  scholar, 
“and  that  is  your  only  fault.” 

“  Then  I  am  a  most  faultless  person,  and  I  only  wish 
that  I  could  return  the  compliment  to  Metrodorus,  but 
his  lip  curls  too  much  and  his  cheeks  are  too  apt  to 
kindle.” 

“I  know  it,  I  know  it,”  said  the  scholar. 

“  Then  why  not  mend  it?” 


H  iFew  in  Htbens* 


77 


‘‘Because  I  am  not  at  all  sure  but  that  it  is  better 
unmended.  If  you  would  but  turn  more  fiercely  upon 
your  enemies,  or  let  me  do  so  for  you,  they  would 
respect  you  more,  for  they  would  fear  you  more.” 

“  But,  as  I  am  not  a  god  nor  a  king  nor  a  soldier,  I 
have  no  claim  to  fear,  and  as  I  am  a  philosopher  I  have 
no  wish  for  it.  Then,  as  to  respect,  do  you  really  think 
yourself  more  worthy  of  it  than  your  master?” 

“Nay!”  said  Metrodorus,  blushing,  “that  is  too  se¬ 
vere  a  rub.” 

“Grant  that  it  was  merited.  No,  no,  my  son  ;  we  will 
convince  all  we  can,  we  will  silence  as  few  as  possible, 
and  we  will  terrify  none.” 

“Remember  the  exit  of  Timocrates,”  said  Theon, 
“was  not  that  made  in  terror?” 

“Yes,  but  it  was  the  work  of  his  conscience,  not  of 
my  eyes  ;  if  the  first  had  been  silent,  I  imagine  he 
would  have  stood  the  last  very  well.” 

“Do  not  name  the  wretch,”  cried  Metrodorus,  indig¬ 
nantly.  “  Oh  !  my  young  Corinthian,  did  you  know  all 
the  patience  and  forbearance  that  his  master  had  shown 
towards  him  ;  all  the  pains  he  took  with  him  ;  vhe  gen¬ 
tleness  with  which  he  admonished  him  ;  the  seriousness 
with  which  he  warned  him  ;  the  thousand  times  that  he 
forgave  him  ;  and  then,  at  last,  when  he  dared  to  insult 
his  master’s  adopted  child,  the  lovely  Hedia,  and  the 
indignant  disciples  thrust  him  from  the  Garden,  he  goes 
to  our  enemies,  the  enemies  of  his  master,  and  feeds 
their  malice  with  infernal  lies.  Curses  of  the  furies  on 
the  wretch  1” 

“Fie!  how  darest  thou?”  said  Epicurus,  thrusting 
his  scholar  indignantly  from  him.  “Thy  anger  is  un¬ 
worthy  of  a  man — how  much,  then,  of  a  brother?  Go, 
and  recollect  thyself,  my  son  !”  softening  his  voice,  as 


78 


H  ffew  in  Htbens^ 


he  saw  a  tear  in  Metrodorus’s  eye.  “The  Corinthian 
will  accompany  you  to  the  Garden  ;  I  will  join  yon  when 
I  have  finished  this  treatise.’^ 

Metrodorus  took  the  arm  of  Theon,  and  they  left  the 
apartment 


CHAPTER  IX. 


not,”  said  Metrodorus  to  Theon,  “take  me  as 

1—/  the  best  sample  of  the  pupils  of  Epicurus.  We 
are  not  all  so  hot-brained  and  hot-tongued.  ’  ^ 

“Nay  !”  returned  his  companion,  “I  am  too  young 
in  philosophy  to  blame  your  warmth.  In  your  place  I 
should  have  been  as  hot  myself.” 

“I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  I  like  you  the  better  for  the 
sentiment.  But  the  sun  scorches  dreadfully — let  us 
seek  shelter.” 

They  turned  into  a  thicket,  and  proceeding  some  dis¬ 
tance,  caught  on  the  still  air  the  notes  of  a  flute.  They 
advanced,  and  came  to  a  beautiful  bank  of  verdure, 
bordered  by  the  river,  and  shadowed  by  a  group  of  thick 
and  wide-spreading  oaks. 

“It  is  Eeontium,”  said  Metrodorus.  “No  other  in 
Attica  can  breathe  the  flute  so  sweetly.” 

They  turned  one  of  the  trunks  and  found  her  lying  on 
the  turf,  her  shoulder  leaning  against  a  tree,  and  her 
figure  raised  on  one  elbow.  Beside  her  was  seated  the 
black-eyed  girl  whom  Theon  had  before  seen,  her 
taper  fingers  twining  into  a  wreath  the  scented  flowers, 
which  were  lightly  thrown  into  her  lap  by  the  gay 
Sofron,  who  stood  at  some  distance  among  the  shrubs. 

“Enough — enough!”  said  the  gentle  voice  of  the 
girl,  as  the  youth  shook  down  in  showers  the  leaves  and 
nectareous  odors  of  the  over-ripe  blossoms.  “Enough — 
enough!”  Stay  thy  hand — thou  heedless  ravager  !” 

79 


8o 


H  3Few  Bai^s  in  Htbens* 


‘  ‘  Thank  thee  for  thy  words,  although  they  chide 
me,’’  said  the  boy,  letting  go  the  bough  which  he  had 
just  seized,  with  a  bound,  light  as  that  of  the  shrub 
when  it  sprung  upward  from  his  hand.  “Thou  hast 
but  one  feeling  in  thy  soul,  Boidion  ;  and  thy  nature 
belies  the  sunny  clime  which  saw  its  birth.  Friendship 
is  all  to  thee,  and  that  friendship  is  but  for  one.  ’  ’ 

“In  truth,  thou  repayest  his  cares  but  coldly,”  said 
Teontium,  taking  the  pipe  from  her  mouth,  and  smiling 
on  the  dark-haired  maiden.” 

“But  I  repay  not  thine  coldly,”  said  Boidion,  kissing 
the  hand  of  her  friend. 

“I  am  well  punished  for  the  neglect  of  my  morning’s 
lecture,”  said  Sofron,  impatiently,  as  he  snatched  his 
book  from  the  ground  and  turned  away. 

“Part  not  in  anger,  brother !”  exclaimed  Boidion. 
But  the  youth  had  vanished,  and  in  his  place  Metrodorus 
and  Theon  stood  before  her. 

The  startled  girl  was  about  to  rise,  when  I^eontium, 
laying  her  hand  on  her  arm, — “Rest  thee,  thou  timid 
fawn,”  and  the  maiden  resumed  her  seat. 

“I  rejoice,”  said  Theon,  as  he  placed  himself  with 
Metrodorus  by  the  side  of  Teontium,  and  took  up  the 
pipe  which  had  fallen  from  her  hand,  “I  rejoice  to  find 
this  little  instrument  restored  to  Athens.” 

“Say  not,  restored  to  Athens,”  returned  Teontium, 
“only  admitted  into  the  Garden.  I  doubt  not  our  vain 
youth  still  remember  the  curse  of  Alciabades,  and  look¬ 
ing  in  their  mirror,  vow  that  none  but  fools  would  play 
on  it.” 

“This  recalls  to  me,”  said  Theon,  “that  I  have 
heard,  among  the  various  reports  concerning  the  Garden 
current  in  the  mouths  of  the  Athenians,  very  contradic- 


H  jfevv  in  Htbens* 


8i 


tory  ones,  as  to  the  place  allowed  in  it  to  the  sciences 
and  liberal  arts,  and  to  music  in  particular.’’ 

“I  suppose,”  said  Metrodorus,  “that  you  heard  our 
whole  employment  was  eating,  drinking,  and  rioting  in 
all  kinds  of  licentiousness  ?” 

‘  ‘  True  ;  I  did  hear  so,  and — I  fear  I  must  confess — 
half  believed  it.  But  I  also  heard  your  licentiousness 
described  in  various  ways  ;  sometimes  as  grossly  sensual, 
enlivened  by  no  elegancies  of  art ;  veiled,  adorned,  if  I 
may  use  the  expression,  by  no  refinement.  In  short, 
Epicurus  laughed  as  well  at  the  fine  arts  as  the  grave 
sciences.  From  others,  again,  I  learned  that  music, 
dancing,  poetry  and  painting  were  pressed  into  the  ser¬ 
vice  of  his  philosophy  ;  that  Eeontium  strung  the  lyre, 
Metrodorus  the  harp,  Hedeia  moved  in  the  dance, 
Boidion  raised  the  song  to  Venus  ;  that  his  Halls  were 
covered  with  voluptuous  pictures,  the  walks  of  his  Gar¬ 
den  lined  with  indecent  statues.” 

“And  you  may  now  perceive  the  truth,”  replied 
Metrodorus,  “with  your  own  eyes  and  ears.” 

“But,”  said  Eeontium,  “  the  young  Corinthian  may 
be  curious  to  know  the  sentiments  of  our  master,  and 
his  advice  regarding  the  pursuit  of  the  sciences  and  the 
liberal  arts.  I  can  readily  perceive,”  addressing  herself 
to  Theon,  “the  origin  of  the  two  contradictory  reports 
you  have  just  mentioned.  The  first  you  would  hear 
from  the  followers  of  Aristippus,  who,  though  not  ac¬ 
knowledging  the  name,  follow  the  te^iets  of  his  philoso¬ 
phy,  and  have  long  been  very  numerous  in  our  degen¬ 
erate  city.  These,  because  Epicurus  recommends  but  a 
moderate  culture  of  those  arts,  which  by  them  are  too 
often  made  the  elegant  incentives  to  licentious  pleasure, 
accuse  him  of  neglecting  them  altogether.  The  cynics, 
and  other  austere  sects,  who  condemn  all  that  ministers 


82 


H  3Few  in  Htbens* 


to  the  luxury,  ease,  or  recreation  of  man,  exaggerate  his 
moderate  use  of  these  arts  into  a  vicious  encouragement 
of  voluptuousness  and  effeminacy.  You  will  see,  there¬ 
fore,  that  between  the  two  reports  lies  the  truth. 
Every  innocent  recreation  is  permitted  in  the  Garden. 
It  is  not  poetry,  but  licentious  poetry,  that  Epicurus 
condemns  ;  not  music,  but  voluptuous  music  ;  not  paint¬ 
ing,  but  licentious  pictures  ;  not  dancing,  but  loose  ges¬ 
tures.  Yet  thus  he  displeases  alike  the  profligate  and 
the  austere  ;  for  these  he  is  too  moderate,  and  for  those 
too  severe.  With  regard  to  the  sciences,  if  it  be  said 
that  they  are  neglected  among  us,  I  do  not  say  that  our 
master,  though  himself  versed  in  them,  as  in  all  other 
branches  of  knowledge,  greatly  recommends  them  to  our 
study.  But  that  they  are  not  unknown,  let  Polyoenus 
be  evidence.  He,  one  of  the  most  amiable  men  of  our 
school,  and  one  most  highly  favored  by  our  master,  you 
must  have  heard  mentioned  throughout  Greece  as  a 
profound  geometrician.” 

“Yes,”  replied  Theon.  “  But  I  have  also  heard  that, 
since  entering  the  Garden,  he  has  ceased  to  respect  his 
science.” 

“I  am  not  aware  of  that,”  replied  Eeontium,  “though 
I  believe  he  no  longer  devotes  to  it  all  his  time  and  all 
his  faculties.  Epicurus  called  him  from  his  diagrams, 
to  open  to  him  the  secrets  of  physics  and  the  beauties  of 
ethics  ;  to  show  him  the  springs  of  human  action,  and 
lead  him  to  the  study  of  the  human  mind.  /He  taught 
him  that  any  single  study,  however  useful  and  noble  in 
itself,  was  yet  unworthy  the  entire  employ  of  a  curious 
and  powerful  intellect ;  that  the  man  who  pursued  one 
line  of  knowledge,  to  the  exclusion  of  others,  though 
he  should  follow  it  up  to  its  very  head,  would  never  be 
either  learned  or  wise  ;  that  he  who  pursues  knowledge. 


H  ffcw  H)a^s  In  Htbens* 


83 


should  think  no  branch  of  it  unworthy  attention  ;  least 
of  all,  should  he  confine  it  to  those  which  are  uncon¬ 
nected  with  the  business,  and  add  nothing  to  the  pleas¬ 
ures  of  life  ;  that  further  not  our  acquaintance  with 
ourselves,  nor  our  fellows  ;  that  tend  not  to  enlarge  the 
sphere  of  our  affections,  to  multiply  our  ideas  and  sen¬ 
sations,  nor  extend  the  scope  of  our  inquiries.  On  this 
ground,  he  rather  blamed  the  devotion  of  Polyoenus  to  a 
science  that  leads  to  other  truths  than  those  of  virtue,  to 
other  study  than  that  of  man.” 

‘‘I  am  obliged  to  you  for  the  explanation,”  said 
Theon,  “not  because  I  could  any  longer  have  given 
credit  to  the  absurd  reports  of  your  master’s  enemies, 
but  because,  whatever  opens  to  me  the  character  and 
opinions  of  such  a  man,  interests  and  improves  me.” 

“You  will  find  this,”  said  Metrodorus,  “the  more 
you  consider  them.  The  life  of  Epicurus  is  a  lesson  of 
wisdom.  It  is  by  example,  even  mof*e  than  precept, 
that  he  guides  his  disciples.  Without  issuing  com¬ 
mands,  he  rules  despotically.  His  wishes  are  divined, 
and  obeyed  as  laws  ;  his  opinions  are  repeated  as  or¬ 
acles  ;  his  doctrines  adopted  as  demonstrated  truths. 
All  is  unanimity  in  the  Garden.  We  are  a  family  of 
brothers,  of  which  Epicurus  is  the  father.  And  I  say 
not  this  in  praise  of  the  scholars,  but  the  master.  Many 
of  us  have  had  bad  habits,  many  of  us  evil  propensities, 
many  of  us  violent  passions.  That  our  habits  are  cor¬ 
rected,  our  propensities  changed,  our  passions  restrained, 
lies  all  with  Epicurus.  What  I  myself  owe  him,  none 
but  myself  know.  The  giddy  follower  of  licentious 
pleasure,  the  headstrong  victim  of  my  passions,  he  has 
made  me  taste  of  the  sweets  of  innocence,  and  brought 
me  into  the  calm  of  philosophy. 

“  It  is  thus  ;  thus,  by  rendering  us  happy,  that  he  lays 


84 


H  ffew  in  Htbens* 


us  at  his  feet  ;  thus  that  he  gains  and  holds  the  empire 
of  our  minds  ;  thus  that,  by  proving  himself  our  friend, 
he  secures  our  respect,  our  submission,  and  onr  love. 
He  cannot  but  know  his  power,  yet  he  exerts  it  in  no 
other  way  than  to  mend  our  lives,  or  to  keep  them 
innocent.  In  argument,  as  you  may  have  observed,  he 
always  seeks  to  convince  rather  than  sway.  He  is  as 
free  from  arrogance  as  from  duplicity  ;  he  would  neither 
force  an  opinion  on  the  mind,  nor  conceal  from  it  a 
truth.  Ask  his  advice,  and  it  is  ever  ready  ;  his  opin¬ 
ion,  and  he  gives  it  clearly.  Free  from  prejudice  him¬ 
self,  he  is  tender  to  that  of  others  :  yet  no  fear  of  cen¬ 
sure,  or  desire  of  popularity,  ever  leads  him  to  humor  it, 
either  in  his  lessons  or  his  writings.  Candor,  as  you 
have  already  remarked,  is  the  prominent  feature  of  his 
mind  ;  it  is  the  crown  of  his  perfect  character.  I  say 
this,  my  young  Corinthian,  who  know  him.  His  soul, 
indeed,  is  open  to  all  ;  but  I  have  approached  very  near 
it,  and  considered  its  inmost  recesses.  Yes,  I  am  proud 
to  say  it,  I  am  one  of  those  he  has  drawn  most  closely 
into  his  intimacy.  With  all  my  imperfections  and 
errors  he  has  adopted  me  as  a  son,  and,  inferior  as  I  am 
in  years,  wisdom  and  virtue,  he  deigns  to  call  me  his 
friend.” 

Tears  here  filled  the  eyes  of  the  scholar.  He  seemed 
about  to  resume,  when  a  slight  sound  made  the  party 
turn  their  heads,  and  they  saw  the  master  at  their  side, 

“Do  not  rise  my  children,  I  will  seat  myself  among 
you.”  Theon  perceived  he  had  heard  the  closing  sen¬ 
tence  of  Metrodorus,  for  the  water  glistened  in  his  eyes 
as  he  fixed  them  tenderly  upon  him.  “Thanks,  my 
son,  for  this  tribute  of  thy  gratitude  ;  I  have  heard  thy 
eulogy,  and  I  accept  it  joyfully.  Tet  all  men,”  and  he 
turned  his  eye  upon  Theon,  “be  above  flattery  ;  but  let 


H  ffew  Baps  in  Htbens^ 


85 


not  a  sage  be  above  praise.  He  that  is  so  is  either  arro¬ 
gant  or  insincere.  For  myself,  I  own  that  the  com¬ 
mendations  of  my  friends  fill  me  with  triumph,  as  the 
assurance  of  their  affection  does  with  satisfaction.  The 
approbation  of  our  familiars,  who  are  with  us  in  our 
secret  hours,  hear  our  private  converse,  know  the  habits 
of  our  lives,  and  the  bent  of  our  dispositions,  is,  or 
should  be  to  us,  far  more  pleasing  and  triumphant  than 
the  shouts  of  a  multitude,  or  the  worship  of  the  world.’ ^ 

There  was  a  pause  of  some  minutes,  when  Teontium 
took  up  the  word  : — “  I  have  been  explaining,  though 
very  shortly  and  imperfectly,  your  views  concerning  the 
studies  most  proper  to  be  pursued  by  men.  I  believe 
the  Corinthian  has  some  curiosity  on  this  point.” 

Theon  assented. 

“Knowledge,”  said  the  master,  “is  the  best  riches 
that  man  can  possess.  Without  it,  he  is  a  brute  ;  with 
it,  he  is  a  God.  But,  like  happiness,  he  often  pursues 
it  without  finding  it  ;  or,  at  best,  obtains  of  it  but  an 
imperfect  glimpse.  It  is  not  that  the  road  to  it  is  either 
dark  or  difficult,  but  that  he  takes  a  wroug  one  ;  or,  if 
he  enters  on  the  right,  he  does  so  unprepared  for  the 
journey.  Now  he  thinks  knowledge  one  with  erudition, 
and,  shutting  himself  up  in  his  closet,  he  cons  all  the 
lore  of  antiquity  ;  he  fathoms  the  sciences,  heaps  up  in 
his  memory  all  the  sayings  of  the  dead,  and,  reckoning 
the  value  of  his  acquisitions  by  the  measure  of  the  time 
and  labor  he  hath  expended  on  them,  he  is  satisfied  he 
hath  reached  his  end,  and,  from  his  retirement,  looking 
down  upon  his  more  ignorant,  because  less  learned, 
brethren,  he  calls  them  children  and  barbarians.  But, 
alas  !  learning  is  not  wisdom,  nor  will  books  give  under¬ 
standing.  Again,  he  takes  a  more  inviting  road  ;  he 
rushes  into  the  crowd  ;  he  rolls  down  the  stream  of 


86 


H  ffew  in  Htbens^ 


pleasure  ;  he  courts  the  breath  of  popularity  ;  he  un¬ 
ravels  or  weaves  the  riddles  of  intrigue  ;  he  humors  the 
passions  of  his  fellows,  and  rises  upon  them  to  name  and 
power.  Then,  laughing  at  the  credulity,  ignorance  and 
vice  he  hath  set  his  throne  upon,  he  says,  that  to  know 
the  world  is  the  only  knowledge,  and  to  see  to  dupe  it, 
is  to  be  wise. 

“  Yet,  knowledge  of  the  world  is  not  knowledge  of 
man,  nor  to  triumph  in  the  passions  of  others  is  not  to 
triumph  over  our  own.  No,  my  sons,  that  only  is  real, 
is  sterling  knowledge,  which  goes  to  make  us  better  and 
happier  men,  and  which  fits  us  to  assist  the  virtue  and 
happiness  of  others.  All  learning  is  useful,  all  the 
sciences  are  curious,  all  the  arts  are  beautiful  ;  but  more 
useful,  more  curious,  and  more  beautiful,  is  the  per¬ 
fect  knowledge  and  perfect  government  of  ourselves. 
Though  a  man  should  read  the  heavens,  unravel  their 
laws  and  their  revolutions  ;  though  he  should  dive  into 
the  mysteries  of  matter,  and  expound  the  phenomena  of 
earth  and  air  ;  though  he  should  be  conversant  with  all 
the  writings,  and  the  sayings  and  actions  of  the  dead  ; 
though  he  should  hold  the  pencil  of  Parrhasius,  the 
chisel  of  Polycletes,  or  the  lyre  of  Pindar;  though  he 
should  do  one  or  all  of  these  things,  yet  not  know  the 
secret  springs  of  his  own  mind,  the  foundation  of  his 
opinions,  the  motives  of  his  actions  ;  if  he  hold  not  the 
rein  over  his  passions  ;  if  he  hath  not  cleared  the  mist 
of  all  prejudices  from  his  understanding;  if  he  have  not 
rubbed  off  all  intolerance  from  his  judgments  ;  if  he 
know  not  to  weigh  his  own  actions,  and  the  actions  of 
others,  in  the  balance  of  justice,  that  man  hath  not 
knowledge  ;  nor,  though  he  be  a  man  of  science,  a  man 
of  learning,  or  an  artist,  he  is  not  a  sage.  He  must  yet 
sit  down,  patient,  at  the  feet  of  Philosophy.  With  all 


H  ffew  Wa^gs  in  Htbens*  87 

his  learning  he  hath  yet  to  learn,  and,  perhaps  a  harder 
task,  he  hath  to  unlearn.” 

The  master  here  paused,  but  the  ears  of  Theon  still 
hung  upon  his  lips.  “  Do  not  cease,”  he  exclaimed; 
“I  could  listen  to  you  through  eternity.” 

“I  cannot  promise  to  declaim  quite  so  long,”  returned 
the  sage,  smiling.  “  But,  if  you  wish  it,  we  will  follow 
out  the  topic  when  we  have  joined  our  other  friends.” 
They  rose,  and  bent  their  steps  to  the  public  walk. 


CHAPTER  X. 


Epicurus  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  expectant 
scholars.  “My  sons,”  he  said,  “why  do  you 
enter  the  Garden?  Is  it  to  seek  happiness,  or  to  seek 
virtue  and  knowledge?  Attend,  and  I  will  show  you 
that  in  finding  one,  you  shall  find  the  three.  To  be 
happy,  we  must  be  virtuous  ;  and  when  we  are  virtuous, 
we  are  wise.  Eet  us  then  begin  ;  and,  first  let  us  for  a 
while  hush  our  passions  into  slumber,  forget  our  preju¬ 
dices,  and  cast  away  our  vanity  and  our  pride.  Thus, 
patient  and  modest,  let  us  come  to  the  feet  of  Philoso¬ 
phy  ;  let  us  say  to  her  : — ‘  Behold  us,  scholars  and  chil¬ 
dren,  gifted  by  nature  with  faculties,  affections  and  pas¬ 
sions.  Teach  us  their  use  and  their  guidance.  Show 
us  how  to  turn  them  to  account ;  how  best  to  make 
them  to  conduce  to  our  ease,  and  minister  to  our 
enjoyment.’ 

“  ‘Sons  of  earth,’  says  the  Deity,  ‘you  have  spoken 
wisely,  you  feel  that  you  are  gifted  by  Nature  with  fac¬ 
ulties,  affections  and  passions  ;  and  you  perceive  that  on 
the  right  exertion  and  direction  of  these  depends  your 
well-being.  It  does  so.  Your  affections,  both  of  soul 
and  body,  may  be  soon  reduced  to  two,  pleasure  and 
pain  ;  the  one  troublesome,  and  the  other  agreeable.  It 
is  natural  and  befitting,  therefore,  that  you  shun  pain, 
and  desire  and  follow  after  pleasure.  Set  forth,  then, 
on  the  pursuit ;  but,  ere  you  start,  be  sure  that  it  is  in 
the  right  road,  and  that  you  have  your  eye  on  the  true 
object.  88 


H  iFew  in  Htbens* 


89 


‘‘‘Perfect  pleasure,  which  is  happiness,  you  will 
have  attained  when  you  have  brought  your  bodies  and 
souls  into  a  state  of  satisfied  tranquillity.  To  arrive  at 
this,  much  previous  exertion  is  requisite  ;  yet  exertion, 
not  violent,  only  constant  and  even.  At  first,  the  body, 
with  its  passions  and  appetites,  demands  gratification 
and  indulgence.  But  beware  !  for  here  are  the  hidden 
rocks  which  may  shipwreck  your  bark  on  its  passage, 
and  shut  you  out  forever  from  the  haven  of  repose. 

“  ‘  Provide  yourselves,  then,  with  a  skilled  pilot,  who 
may  steer  you  through  the  Scylla  and  Charybdis  of  your 
carnal  affections  and  point  the  steady  helm  through  the 
deep  waters  of  your  passions.  Behold  her  !  it  is  Pru¬ 
dence,  the  mother  of  the  virtues  and  the  handmaid  of 
wisdom.  Ask,  and  she  will  tell  you,  that  gratification 
will  give  new  edge  to  the  hunger  of  your  appetites,  and 
that  the  storm  of  the  passions  shall  kindle  with  indul¬ 
gence.  Ask,  and  she  will  tell  you,  that  sensual  pleasure 
is  pain  covered  with  the  mask  of  happiness.  Behold  ! 
she  strips  it  from  her  face,  and  reveals  the  features  of 
disease,  disquietude  and  remorse.  Ask,  and  she  will 
tell  you,  that  happiness  is  not  found  in  tumult,  but 
tranquillity,  and  that  not  the  tranquillity  of  indolence 
and  inaction,  but  of  a  healthy  contentment  of  soul  and 
body.  Ask,  and  she  will  tell  you,  that  a  happy  life  is 
like  neither  to  a  roaring  torrent^  nor  a  stagnant  pool^ 
but  to  a  placid  a7id  crystal  stream^  that  flows  gently  and 
silently  along. 

‘  ‘  ‘  And  now  Prudence  shall  bring  you  to  the  lovely 
train  of  the  virtues.  Temperance,  throwing  a  bridle  on 
your  desires,  shall  gradually  subdue  and  annihilate 
those  whose  present  indulgence  would  only  bring  future 
evil  ;  and  others,  more  necessary  and  more  innocent, 
she  shall  yet  bring  down  to  such  becoming  moderation. 


90 


H  3Few  Daps  in  Htbens* 


as  shall  prevent  all  disquiet  to  the  soul  and  injury  to 
the  body.  Fortitude  shall  strengthen  you  to  bear  those 
diseases  which  even  temperance  may  not  be  efficient  to 
prevent ;  those  affiictions  which  fate  may  level  at  you  ; 
those  persecutions  which  the  folly  or  malice  of  man 
may  invent.  It  shall  fit  you  to  bear  all  things,  to  con¬ 
quer  fear,  and  to  meet  death.  Justice  shall  give  you 
security  among  your  fellows,  and  satisfaction  in  your 
own  breasts.  Generosity  shall  endear  you  to  others, 
and  sweeten  your  own  nature  to  youselves.  Gentleness 
shall  take  the  sting  from  the  malice  of  your  enemies, 
and  make  you  extract  double  sweet  from  the  kindness 
of  friends.  Gratitude  shall  lighten  the  burden  of  obli¬ 
gation,  or  render  it  even  pleasant  to  bear.  Friendship 
shall  put  the  crown  on  your  security  and  your  joy. 
With  these,  and  yet  more  virtues,  shall  Prudence  sur¬ 
round  you.  And,  thus  attended,  hold  on  your  course  in 
confidence,  and  moor  yonr  barks  in  the  haven  of  repose.’ 

“Thus  says  Philosophy,  my  sons,  and  says  she  not 
wisely?  To  tell  us,  ye  who  have  tried  the  slippery 
paths  of  licentiousness,  who  have  given  the  rein  to  your 
passions,  and  sought  pleasure  in  the  lap  of  voluptuous¬ 
ness — tell  us,  did  ye  find  her  there?  No  !  ye  did  not,  or 
ye  would  not  now  inquire  of  her  from  Kpicurus.  Come, 
then.  Philosophy  hath  shown  ye  the  way.  Throw  off 
your  old  habits,  wash  -impurity  from  your  hearts  ;  take 
up  the  bridle  of  your  passions — govern  your  minds  and 
be  happy. 

“And  ye,  my  sons,  to  whom  all  things  are  yet  new  ; 
whose  passions  yet  in  the  bud  have  never  led  you  to 
pain  and  regret,  ye  who  have  yet  to  begin  your  career, 
come  ye  also  !  Philosophy  hath  shown  ye  the  way. 
Keep  your  hearts  innocent,  hold  the  bridle  of  your  pas¬ 
sions,  govern  your  minds  and  be  happy.  But,  my  sons. 


H  ffew  Daps  in  Htbens* 


91 


methink  I  hear  you  say,  ‘  You  have  shown  us  the  vir¬ 
tues  rather  as  modifiers  and  correctors  of  evil,  than  as 
the  givers  of  actual  and  perfect  good.  Happiness,  you 
tell  us,  consists  in  ease  of  body  and  mind  ;  yet  temper¬ 
ance  cannot  secure  the  former  from  disease,  nor  can  all 
the  virtues  united,  ward  afiliction  from  the  latter.’ 

‘‘True,  my  children.  Philosophy  cannot  change  the 
laws  of  Nature ;  but  she  may  teach  us  to  accommodate 
to  them.  She  cannot  annul  pain,  but  she  can  arm  us 
to  bear  it.  And,  though  the  evils  of  fate  may  be  many, 
are  not  the  evils  of  man’s  coining  more  ?  Nature  afflicts 
us  with  disease — but,  for  once  that  it  is  the  infliction  of 
Nature,  ninety-nine  times  it  is  the  consequence  of  our 
own  folly. 

“  Nature  levels  us  with  death  ;  but  how  mild  is  the 
death  of  Nature,  with  Philosophy  to  spread  the  pillow, 
and  friendship  to  take  the  last  sigh,  to  the  protracted 
agonies  of  debauchery,  subduing  the  body  by  inches, 
while  Philosophy  is  not  there  to  give  strength  nor 
friendship  consolation,  but  the  flames  of  fever  are  heated 
by  impatience  and  the  stings  of  pain  envenomed  by 
remorse  !  And  tell  me,  my  sons,  when  the  body  of  the 
sage  is  stretched  on  the  couch  of  pain,  hath  he  not  his 
mind  to  minister  delight  to  him?  Hath  he  not  con¬ 
science  whispering  that  his  present  evil  is  not  charge¬ 
able  to  his  own  past  folly,  but  to  the  laws  of  Nature 
which  no  foresight  or  effort  of  his  could  have  prevented? 

“Hath  he  not  memory  to  bring  to  him  past  pleasures, 
the  pleasures  of  a  well-spent  life,  on  which  he  may  feed 
even  v/hile  pain  racks  his  members  and  fever  consumes 
his  vitals  ?  Or,  what  if  agony  overpower  his  frame,-  and 
cripple  his  faculties,  is  there  not  death  at  hand  to  reach 
him  deliverance?  Here,  then,  is  death,  that  giant  of 
terror,  acting  as  a  friend!  But  does  he  interrupt  our 


92 


H  3Few  Wa^s  in  Htbens* 


enjoyments  as  well  as  our  sufferings?  And  is  it  for  this 
we  fear  him?  Ought  we  not  rather  to  rejoice,  seeing 
that  the  day  of  life  has  its  bright  and  its  clouded  hours, 
that  we  are  laid  to  sleep  while  the  sun  of  joy  yet  shines, 
before  the  storm  of  fate  has  broken  our  tranquillity,  or 
the  evening  of  age  bedimmed  our  prospect?  Death, 
then,  is  never  our  foe.  When  not  a  friend,  he  cannot 
be  worse  than  indifferent.  I^or  while  we  are^  death  is 
not ;  and  when  death  is^  we  are  not.  To  be  wise,  then, 
death  is  nothing.  Examine  the  ills  of  life  ;  are  they 
not  of  our  own  creation,  or  take  they  not  their  darkest 
hues  from  our  passions  or  our  ignorance  ?  What  is  pov¬ 
erty,  if  we  have  temperance  and  can  be  satisfied  with  a 
crust  and  a  draught  from  the  spring?  if  we  have  mod¬ 
esty,  and  can  wear  a  woolen  garment  as  gladly  as  a 
Tyrian  robe  ? 

“What  is  slander,  if  we  have  no  vanity  that  it  can 
wound  and  no  anger  that  it  can  kindle?  What  is 
neglect,  if  we  have  no  ambition  that  it  can  disappoint 
and  no  pride  that  it  can  mortify  ?  What  is  persecution, 
if  we  have  our  own  bosoms  in  which  to  retire  and  a 
spot  of  earth  to  sit  down  and  rest  upon  ?  What  is  death 
when,  without  superstition  to  clothe  him  with  terrors, 
we  can  cover  our  heads  and  go  to  sleep  in  his  arms? 
What  a  list  of  human  calamities  and  misfortunes  are 
here  expunged — poverty,  slander,  neglect,  disappoint¬ 
ment,  persecution,  death  !  What  yet  remains  ?  Disease  ? 
That,  too,  we  have  shown  temperance  can  often  shun 
and  Philosophy  can  always  alleviate.  But  there  is  yet  a 
pain,  which  the  wisest  and  the  best  of  men  cannot 
escape — that  all  of  us,  my  sons,  have  felt,  or  have  to 
feel.  Do  not  your  hearts  whisper  it  ?  Do  you  not  tell 
me,  that  . in  death  there  is  yet  a  sting?  That  ere  he 
aim  at  us,  he  may  level  the  beloved  of  our  soul  ?  The 


H  ffcw  in  Htbeus* 


93 


father,  whose  tender  care  hath  reared  our  infant  minds  ; 
the  brother,  whom  the  same  breast  hath  nourished  and 
the  same  roof  sheltered,  with  whom,  side  by  side^  we 
have  grown  like  two  plants  by  a  river,  sucking  life  from 
the  same  fountain  and  strength  from  the  same  sun  ;  the 
child,  whose  gay  prattle  delights  our  ears,  or  whose 
opening  understanding  fixes  our  hopes  ;  the  friend  of 
our  choice,  with  whom  we  have  exchanged  hearts,  and 
shared  all  our  pleasures  and  pains,  whose  eye  hath  re¬ 
flected  the  tear  of  sympathy,  whose  hand  hath  smoothed 
the  couch  of  sickness.  Ah  !  my  sons,  here  is,  indeed,  a 
pain — a  pain  that  cuts  into  the  soul  !  There  are  masters 
who  will  tell  you  otherwise  ;  who  will  tell  you  that  it  is 
unworthy  of  a  man  to  mourn  even  here.  But  such,  my 
sons,  speak  not  of  the  truth  of  experience  or  Philosophy 
but  the  subtleties  of  sophistry  and  pride.  He  who  feels 
not  the  loss,  hath  never  felt  the  possession.  He  who 
knows  not  the  grief,  hath  never  known  the  joy. 

“See  the  price  of  a  friend  in  the  duties  we  render 
him,  and  the  sacrifices  we  make  to  him — and  which,  in 
making,  we  count  not  sacrifices,  but  pleasures  !  We  sor¬ 
row  on  account  of  his  sorrow  ;  we  supply  his  wants,  or, 
if  we  cannot,  we  share  them.  We  follow  him  to  exile. 
We  close  ourselves  in  his  prison  ;  we  soothe  him  in  sick¬ 
ness  ;  we  strengthen  him  in  death — nay,  if  it  be  possible, 
we  throw  down  our  life  for  his.  Oh  !  what  a  treasure  is 
that  for  which  we  do  so  much!  And  is  it  forbidden  us 
to  mourn  its  loss?  If  it  be,  the  power  is  not  with  us  to 
obey.  Should  we,  then,  to  avoid  the  evil,  forego  the 
good  ?  Shall  we  shut  love  from  our  hearts,  that  we  may 
not  feel  the  pain  of  his  departure?  No  !  happiness  for¬ 
bids  it  1  Experience  forbids  it  1  Let  him  who  hath 
laid  on  the  pyre  the  dearest  of  his  soul,  who  hath  washed 
the  urn  with  the  bitterest  tears  of  grief,  let  him  say  if 


94 


H  3Few  in  Htbens^ 


his  heart  hath  ever  formed  the  wish  that  it  had  never 
shrined  within  it  him  whom  he  now  deplores?  Let 
him  say  if  the  pleasure  of  the  sweet  communion  of  his 
former  days  doth  not  still  live  in  his  memory  ?  If  he 
love  not  to  recall  the  image  of  the  departed,  the  tones  of 
his  voice,  the  words  of  his  discourse,  the  deeds  of  his 
kindness,  the  amiable  virtues  of  his  life  ?  If,  while  he 
weeps  the  loss  of  his  friend,  he  smiles  not  to  think  that 
he  once  possessed  him  ? 

‘‘He  who  knows  not  friendship  knows  not  the  purest 
delight  of  earth — yet  if  fate  deprive  us  of  it,  though  we 
grieve,  we  do  not  sink.  Philosophy  is  still  at  hand,  and 
she  upholds  us  with  fortitude.  And  think,  my  sons, 
perhaps  in  the  very  evil  we  dread  there  is  a  good  ;  per¬ 
haps  the  very  uncertainty  of  the  tenure  gives  its  value 
in  our  eyes  ;  perhaps  all  our  pleasures  take  their  zest 
from  the  known  possibility  of  their  interruption.  What 
were  the  glories  of  the  sun,  if  we  knew  not  the  gloom  of 
darkness  ?  What  the  refreshing  breezes  of  morning  and 
evening,  if  we  felt  not  the  fervors  of  noon  ?  Should  we 
value  the  lovely  flower  if  it  bloomed  eternally,  or  the 
luscious  fruit  if  it  hung  always  on  the  bough? 

“  Are  not  the  smiles  of  the  heavens  more  beautiful  in 
contrast  with  their  frowns,  and  the  delights  of  the  sea¬ 
sons  more  grateful  from  their  vicissitudes  ?  Let  us  then 
be  slow  to  blame  Nature,  for  perhaps  in  her  apparent 
errors  there  is  hidden  wisdom.  Let  us  not  quarrel  with 
fate,  for  perhaps  in  our  evils  lie  the  seeds  of  our  good. 
Were  our  body  never  subject  to  sickness,  we  might  be 
insensible  to  the  joy  of  health.  Were  our  life  eternal, 
our  tranquillity  might  sink  into  inaction.  Were  our 
friendship  not  threatened  with  interruption  it  might 
want  much  of  its  tenderness. 

“This,  then,  my  sons,  is  our  duty,  for  this  is  our 


H  ffew  Daps  in  Htbens* 


95 


interest  and  our  happiness — to  seek  our  pleasures  from 
the  hands  of  the  Virtues,  and  for  the  pain  which  may 
befall  us  to  submit  to  it  with  patience  or  bear  up  against 
it  with  fortitude.  To  walk^  in  shorty  through  life  i^ino- 
cently  and  tranquilly  ;  and  to  look  on  death  as  its  gentle 
termination^  which  it  becomes  us  to  meet  with  ready 
minds^  neither  regretting  the  pasty  nor  anxious  for  the 
future  T 

The  sage  had  scarcely  ceased  when  a  scholar  advanced 
from  the  crowd,  and,  bowing  his  head  with  reverence, 
stooped  and  touched  the  knees  of  his  master  : — “Refuse 
not  my  homage,”  he  said,  “nor  call  the  expression  of 
it  presumptuous.” 

Epicurus  raised  him  in  his  arms.  ‘  ‘  Colotes,  I  am 
more  proud  of  the  homage  of  thy  young  mind  than  I 
should  be  of  that  of  the  assembled  crowds  of  Olympia. 
May  thy  master,  my  son,  never  lose  his  power  over  it, 
as  I  feel  that  he  will  never  abuse  it.  ’  ’ 


CHAPTER  XL 


HE  sun  had  far  declined  from  his  meridian,  yet  no 


1  cool  breeze  tempered  the  fervor  of  the  heat.  The 
atmosphere  was  chained  in  oppressive  stillness,  when 
suddenly  a  bustling  wind  shook  the  trees  and  a  low 
growling  reverberated  around  the  horizon.  The  schol¬ 
ars  retired  before  the  threatening  storm  ;  but  Theon, 
his  ear  still  filled  with  the  musical  voice  of  the  sage  and 
his  heart  imbued  with  his  gentle  precepts,  lingered  to 
feed  alone  upon  the  thoughts  they  had  awakened  in 
him.  “How  mad  is  the  folly  of  man  !”  he  said,  as  he 
threw  his  back  against  a  tree.  “  Professing  to  admire 
wisdom  and  love  virtue,  and  yet  ever  persecuting  and 
slandering  both.  How  vain  it  is  to  look  for  credit  by 
teaching  truth,  or  to  seek  fame  by  the  road  of  virtue  !” 

“Thy  regret  is  idle,  my  son,”  said  a  well-known 
voice  in  his  ear. 

“Oh — my  guardian  spirit !”  cried  the  startled  youth. 
“Is  it  you ?” 

“I  linger,”  said  the  Gargettian,  “to  watch  the  ap¬ 
proach  of  the  storm,  and  I  suppose  you  do  the  same?” 

“No,”  returned  the  youth.  “I  hardly  heeded  the 
heavens.  ’  ’ 

“They  are  singular,  however,  at  this  moment.” 
Theon  looked  where  the  sage  pointed.  A  dark  mass  of 
vapors  was  piled  upon  the  head  of  Hymethus,  from 
which  two  columns,  shooting  forth  like  the  branches  of 
some  giant  oak,  spread  themselves  over  the  sky.  The 


H  ffew  H)aps  in  Htbens^ 


97 


opposing  sun,  fast  traveling  to  the  horizon,  looked  red 
through  the  heated  atmosphere,  and  flashed  a  deep  glare 
on  their  murky  sides.  Soon  half  the  landscape  was 
blackened  with  the  sinking  clouds  that,  each  moment 
increasing  in  bulk  and  density,  seemed  to  touch  the 
bosom  of  the  earth.  The  western  half  glowed  with  a 
brilliant  light,  like  molten  gold.  The  distant  outline 
was  marked  with  a  pencil  of  fire,  while  the  gardens  and 
villas  that  speckled  the  plain  seemed  illuminated  in 
jubilee. 

“See,”  said  the  sage,  stretching  his  hand  towards 
the  gilded  scene,  “see  the  image  of  that  fame  which  is 
not  founded  in  virtue  !  Thus  bright  may  it  shine  for  a 
moment,  but  the  cloud  of  oblivion  or  infamy  comes  fast 
to  cover  its  glory  !” 

“Is  it  so?”  said  Theon.  “Do  not  the  vile  of  the 
earth  fill  the  tongues  of  men,  and  are  not  the  noble  for¬ 
gotten?  Does  not  the  titled  murderer  inscribe  his  name 
on  the  tablets  of  eternity,  with  the  sword  which  is  dip¬ 
ped  in  the  blood  of  his  fellows  ?  And  does  not  the  man 
who  has  spent  his  youth  and  manhood  and  age  in  the 
courts  of  wisdom,  who  has  planted  peace  at  the  hearth, 
and  given  truth  to  the  rising  age,  does  he  not  go  down 
to  the  grave  in  silence,  his  bones  unhonored  and  his 
name  forgotten?” 

“  Possibly  his  name  ;  but  if  he  have  planted  peace  at 
the  hearth,  and  given  truth  to  the  rising  age,  surely  not 
his  better  part — his  virtues.  Do  not  confound  noise 
with  fame.  The  man  who  is  remembered  is  not  always 
honored  ;  and  reflect,  what  a  man  toils  for,  that,  proba¬ 
bly,  will  he  win.  The  titled  murderer,  who  weaves  his 
fate  with  that  of  empires,  will  with  them  go  down  to 
posterity.  The  sage,  who  does  his  work  in  the  silence 
of  retirement,  unobserved  in  his  own  generation,  will 


98 


H  3Few  Daps  in  Htbens* 


pass  into  the  unbroken  silence  of  the  grave,  unknown 
to  the  future.” 

“  But  suppose  he  be  known.  How  few  worshippers 
should  crowd  to  his  shrine,  and  what  millions  to  that  of 
the  other !” 

“And  those  few,  my  son,  who  are  they?  The  wise  of 
the  earth,  the  enlightened  patriot,  the  discerning  philos¬ 
opher  !  And  who  are  the  millions  ?  The  ignorant,  the 
prejudiced,  and  the  idle  !  Nor  yet,  let  us  so  wrong  the 
reason  of  our  species,  as  to  say,  that  they  always  give 
honor  to  the  mischievous  rather  than  the  useful ;  grati¬ 
tude  to  their  oppressors,  rather  than  their  benefactors. 
In  instances  they  may  be  blind,  but  in  the  gross  they 
are  just.  The  splendor  of  action,  the  daring  of  enter¬ 
prise,  or  the  glitter  of  majesty  may  seize  their  imagina¬ 
tion,  and  so  drown  their  judgment ;  but  never  is  it 
the  tyranny  of  power,  the  wantonness  of  cruelty,  the 
brutality  of  vice,  which  they  adore,  any  more  than  it 
is  the  innocence  and  usefulness  of  virtue  which  they 
despise. 

“The  united  experience  of  mankind  has  pronounced 
virtue  to  be  the  great  good  ;  nay,  so  universal  is  the 
conviction  that  even  those  who  insult  her  in  their  prac¬ 
tice  bow  to  her  in  their  understanding.  Man  is,  for  the 
most  part,  more  fool  than  knave,  more  weak  than  de¬ 
praved  in  action,  more  ignorant  than  vicious  in  judg¬ 
ment  ;  and  seldom  is  he  so  weak  and  so  ignorant  as  not 
to  see  his  own  interest  and  value  him  who  promotes  it. 
But  say  that  he  often  slanders  the  virtuous  and  perse¬ 
cutes  the  wise — he  does  it  more  in  error  than  from 
depravity.  He  is  credulous,  and,  on  the  report  of  mal¬ 
ice,  takes  virtue  for  hypocrisy  ;  he  is  superstitious,  and 
some  of  the  truths  of  wisdom  appear  to  him  profane. 
Say  he  does  homage  to  vice  ;  you  will  find  when  he 


H  JFew  in  Htbens* 


99 


does  it,  he  believes  her  to  be  virtue.  Hypocrisy 
has  masked  her  deformity,  or  talent  decked  her  with 
beauty. 

“Is  here,  then,  subject  for  wrath?  Rather,  surely, 
for  compassion.  Is  here  matter  for  disgust?  Rather, 
surely,  for  exertion.  The  darker  the  ignorance,  the 
more  praise  to  the  sage  who  dispels  it ;  the  deeper  the 
prejudice,  more  fame  to  the  courage  which  braves  it. 

But,  may  the  courage  be  vain  ?  May  the  sage  fall  the 
victim  of  the  ignorance  he  combats  ?  He  may — he  often 
has.  But  ere  he  engage,  knows  he  not  the  risk  ?  The 
risk  is  to  himself ;  the  profit  to  mankind.  To  a  benevo¬ 
lent  soul,  the  odds  is  worth  the  throw  ;  and,  though  it 
be  against  him  at  the  present,  he  may  win  it  in  the 
future.  The  sage,  whose  vision  is  cleared  from  the  mists 
of  prejudice,  can  stretch  it  over  the  existing  age,  to  the 
kindling  horizon  of  the  succeeding,  and  see,  perhaps, 
unborn  generations  weeping  the  great  injustice  of  their 
fathers,  and  worshipping  those  truths  which  they  con¬ 
demned.  Or,  is  it  otherwise  ?  Rives  he  in  the  old  age 
of  the  world,  and  does  he  see  the  stream  of  time  flowing 
through  a  soil  yet  more  rank  with  prejudice  and  evil? 

Say,  then,  were  the  praise  of  such  a  world  a  fit  object  of 
his  ambition?  Or  shall  he  be  jealous  of  the  fame  which 
ignorance  yields  to  the  unworthy?  But,  anyway,  my 
son,  it  is  not  the  voice  of  fame  that  we  should  seek  in 
the  practice  of  virtue,  but  the  peace  of  self-satisfaction.  ^ ‘ 
The  object  of  the  sage  is  to  make  himself  independent '  3*^^ 
of  all  that  he  cannot  command  within  himself.  Yet, 
when  I  speak  of  independence  I  mean  not  indifference  ; 
while  we  make  ourselves  sufficient  for  ourselves,  we 
need  not  forget  the  crowd  about  us.  We  are  not  wise 
in  the  contempt  of  others,  but  in  calm  approbation  of 
ourselves.  Still  dost  thou  droop  thy  head,  my  son?” 


lOO 


H  jfew  in  Htbens* 


said  the  gentle  and  instructive  philosopher,  laying  a 
hand  on  the  shoulder  of  his  young  friend. 

“  Your  words  sink  deep  into  my  soul,”  replied  Theon  ; 
“yet  they  have  not  chased  the  melancholy  they  found 
there.  I  have  not  such  a  world  in  myself  as  to  be  inde¬ 
pendent  of  that  about  me,  nor  can  I  forgive  the  offences 
of  my  fellows,  merely  because  they  commit  them  from 
ignorance.  Nay,  is  not  their  very  ignorance  often  a 
crime,  when  the  voice  of  truth  is  whispering  in  their  ear?’  ’ 

“  And  if  they  do  not  hear  her  whisper  in  the  one  ear, 
it  is  because  prejudice  is  crying  aloud  into  the  other.” 

“  Prejudice  !  I  hate  prejudice,”  said  Theon. 

“And  so  do  I,”  said  the  master. 

“  Yes  ;  but  I  am  provoked  with  it.” 

“  I  suspect  that  will  not  remove  the  evil.” 

“Nothing  will  remove  it.  It  is  inherent  in  men’s 
nature.” 

“Then,  as  we  are  men,  it  may  be  inherent  in  ours. 
Trust  me,  my  son,  it  is  better  to  correct  ourselves  than 
to  find  fault  with  our  neighbors.” 

“  But  is  it  not  allowed  to  do  both  ?  Can  we  help  see¬ 
ing  the  errors  of  the  world  in  which  we  live,  and  seeing, 
can  we  help  being  angry  at  them?” 

“Certainly  not  the  seeing  them,  but  I  hope,  very  pos¬ 
sibly,  the  being  angry  with  them.  He  that  looses  tem¬ 
per  with  the  folly  of  others,  shows  that  he  has  folly 
himself.  In  which  case  they  have  as  much  right  to 
complain  of  his  as  he  of  theirs.  And  have  I  not  been 
trying  to  show  you,  that  when  you  are  wise  you  will  be 
independent  of  all  that  you  cannot  command  within 
yourself?  You  say  you  are  not  so  now.  I  admit  it ; 
but  when  you  are  wise  you  will  be  so.  And  A’//  you  are 
wise,  you  have  surely  no  title  to  quarrel  with  the  ignor¬ 
ance  of  another.” 


H  ifew  IDags  in  Etbens. 


lOI 


“I  can  never  be  independent  of  my  friends,”  returned 
Theon.  “I  must  ever  feel  the  injustice  done  to  them, 
though  I  might  be  regardless  of  that  which  affected 
merely  myself.” 

“Why  so  ?  What  would  enable  you  to  disregard  that 
done  to  yourself?” 

“  Conscious  innocence.  Pride,  if  you  will.  Contempt 
of  the  folly  and  ignorance  of  my  judges.  ” 

“Well,  and  are  you  less  conscious  of  the  innocence  of 
your  friend  ?  If  you  are,  where  is  your  indignation,  and 
if  you  are  not,  have  you  less  pride  for  him  than  for 
yourself?  Do  you  respect  that  folly  and  ignorance  in 
his  judges,  that  you  despise  in  your  own?” 

“I  believe  it  will  not  stand  argument,”  said  Theon. 
“But  you  must  forgive  me  if,  when  I  contemplate 
Bpicurus,  I  feel  indignant  at  the  slander  which  dares  to 
breathe  upon  his  purity.” 

“And  do  you  think  you  were  yourself  an  object  of 
indignation,  when  you  spoke  of  him  as  a  monster  of 
vice  ?” 

“  Yes  ;  I  feel  I  was.” 

“  But  he  felt  otherwise,”  said  the  master,  “and  which, 
think  you,  is  likely  to  feel  most  wisely?” 

“Ah  !  I  hope  it  is  Epicurus,”  said  the  youth,  snatch¬ 
ing  his  instructor’s  hand.  This  conversation  was  here 
interrupted  by  the  bursting  of  the  storm.  The  fire  flash¬ 
ed  round  the  horizon,  the  thunder  cracked  over  the 
zenith,  and  the  first  big  drops  fell  from  the  burdened 
clouds.  “We  are  near  the  Temple,”  said  the  sage, 
“let  us  seek  shelter  under  its  portico.  We  may  watch 
the  storm  there,  without  a  wet  skin.”  They  had  hardly 
gained  it,  when  the  rain  poured  down  in  torrents.  Ilissus, 
whom  the  burning  sun  had  of  late  faded  into  a  feeble 
rill,  soon  filled  and  overflowed  his  bed  ;  wave  after  wave. 


102 


H  3few  Da^s  in  Htbens* 


in  sudden  swell,  came  roaring  down,  as  if  be  now  first 
burst  to  life  from  the  womb  of  his  parent  mountain. 
But  the  violence  of  the  storm  soon  spent  its  strength. 
Already  the  thunder  broke  with  longer  intervals,  and  a 
faint  light,  like  the  opening  of  morning,  gleamed  over 
the  western  sky.  At  length  the  sun  cleared  his  barrier 
of  clouds.  He  stood  on  the  verge  of  the  waves,  and 
shot  his  level  rays  over  the  blazing  Salamis  and  the 
glistening  earth.  The  sage  stood  with  his  young  friend 
in  silent  admiration,  when  the  eye  of  the  latter  was 
attracted  by  a  horseman,  who  came  full  gallop  over  the 
plain  directly  towards  them.  The  object  of  his  attention 
had  nearly  reached  the  river,  when  he  perceived  the 
rider  to  be  a  female.  The  swift  feet  of  the  steed  now 
touched  the  opposing  brink.  “Great  Jove,  he  will  not 
attempt  the  passage!’’  exclaimed  the  youth,  as  she 
sprung  towards  the  river.  “Stop!  stop!”  he  cried. 
She  checked  the  rein,  but  too  late.  The  animal,  accus¬ 
tomed  to  the  passage,  and  blinded  by  speed,  plunged 
into  the  flood.  Theon  tore  his  robe  from  his  .shoulders, 
and  was  about  to  make  the  plunge  on  his  side,  when  he 
was  grasped  by  Bpicurus. 

“Be  not  rash.  The  horse  is  strong,  and  the  rider 
skilful.” 

The  voice  that  uttered  these  words  was  calm  and  dis¬ 
tinct,  but  its  wonted  music  was  changed  into  the  deep 
tone  of  suppressed  horror.  Bven  at  that  moment,  the 
accent  struck  Theon’s  ear. 

“Do  you  know  her?  Is  she  your  friend?  Is  she 
dear  to  you?  If  so,” — he  made  another  eflbrt  to 
throw  himself  forward,  but  was  still  restrained  by 
Bpicurus.  He  looked  into  the  philosopher’s  face. 
There  was  no  motion  in  it,  save  a  quivering  round  the 
mouth,  while  the  eyes  were  fixed  in  aching  gaze  on  the 


H  ffew  H)a^s  in  Htbens^ 


103 


struggling  animal.  He  breasted  the  water  midway, 
when,  seemingly  frightened  at  the  rapidity  of  the  cur¬ 
rent,  he  tried  to  turn.  The  rider  saw  the  danger,  she 
curbed  the  rein,  she  tried  with  voice  and  effort  to  urge 
him  to  the  conflict.  Theon  looked  again  at  the  sage. 
He  saw  he  had  loosened  his  mantle,  and  was  prepared 
to  try  the  flood.  ‘‘I  conjure  you,  by  the  gods!’’  said 
the  youth,  “  what  is  my  life  to  yours?”  He  grasped  the 
sage  in  his  turn.  “  Let  me  save  her  1  I  will  save  her  1  I 
swear  it !”  They  both  struggled  a  moment  for  the  leap, 
‘‘I  swear,”  continued  Theon,  with  furious  energy,  ‘‘that 
if  you  go,  I  will  follow  1”  He  made  another  effort,  and 
dashed  from  the  hold  of  Epicurus  into  the  river.  Natu¬ 
rally  strong,  he  was  doubly  so  at  this  moment.  He  felt 
not  fear,  he  saw  not  danger.  In  a  moment  he  was  in  the 
centre  of  the  current — another  stroke  and  he  had  seized 
the  mane  of  the  steed.  But  the  terrified  animal  even 
then  gave  way  to  the  stream.  The  rider  still  struggled 
for  her  seat.  But  her  strength  fast  failed  ;  she  stretched 
out  her  hand  with  a  feeble  cry  of  despair.  Theon  shot 
forward  yet  swifter  than  the  tide  ;  he  drove  with  a 
shock  against  the  horse,  and  caught  with  one  arm  the 
expiring  girl.  Then,  half  yielding  to  the  current,  he 
parted  with  the  other  the  roaring  waters,  and,  with 
effort  almost  superhuman,  grappled  with  their  fury. 
Panting,  choking,  bewildered,  yet  never  relaxing,  he 
reached,  but  he  knew  not  how,  the  land.  When  he 
recovered  recollection  he  found  himself  lying  on  a 
couch,  in  the  arms  of  Epicurus.  “Where  ami?”  he 
said,  “  and  where  is  the  lovely  girl?” 

“Safe — safe,  as  her  generous  deliverer.  Oh!  my 
son  !  now,  indeed,  my  son,  when  I  owe  to  thee  my 
Hedeia  !” 

“Was  it  your  adopted  child,  then?”  cried  the  youth. 


104 


H  3few  Daps  in  Uthcns. 


with  a  shout  of  delirious  joy,  as  he  threw  himself  on 
the  breast  of  the  sage.  “  But,  tell  me,”  he  said,  rising, 
and  looking  round  on  Metrodorus,  who,  with  two  other 
scholars,  stood  beside  the  couch,  “how  came  I  here?” 

“I  believe,”  said  Metrodorus,  “the  master  swam  to 
your  aid — at  least  we  found  him  lifting  you  and  Hedeia 
from  the  water.” 

“I  watched  your  strength,  my  son,  and  reserved 
mine,  till  it  should  fail  ;  and  when  I  observed  it  do  so,  I 
came  to  your  assistance.  Now,  compose  yourself  awhile, 
and  I  will  go  and  put  myself  into  a  dry  tunic.” 


CHAPTER  XIL 


THEON,  rising  recruited  from  the  warm  bath,  and 
his  limbs  being  well  rubbed  with  ointments,  joined 
the  party  at  supper,  in  health  and  spirits.  It  consisted 
of  the  master,  Eeontium,  Metrodorus  and  two  other 
scholars,  whose  persons  were  new  to  him.  There  was 
something  in  the  gentle  manners  of  one,  not  un mixed 
with  a  little  awkwardness,  the  grave  repose  of  his  fea¬ 
tures,  the  abstract  thought  that  lined  his  forehead,  and 
fixed  his  mild  eye,  that  led  him  to  guess  it  was  Polyoenus. 
The  other,  whose  gait  had  the  dignity  of  manhood  and 
the  polish  of  art,  whose  face,  without  being  handsome, 
had  that  beauty  which  refined  sentiment  and  a  well- 
stored  mind  always  throw  more  or  less  into  the  features, 
whose  whole  appearance  showed  at  once  the  fine  scholar 
and  the  amiable  man,  fixed  instantly  Theon’s  attention 
and  curiosity.  All  received  the  youth  with  congratula¬ 
tions,  and  Metrodorus,  as  he  held  him  in  his  embrace, 
jokingly  upbraided  him  as  a  greedy  and  barbarous  in¬ 
vader,  who  was  carrying  off,  in  his  single  person,  the 
whole  love  and  honor  of  the  garden.  “But  yet,”  he 
added,  “have  a  care,  for  I  doubt  you  have  secured  the 
envy  also.” 

“I  believe  it,”  said  Theon.  “At  least  I  know  I 
should  envy  you,  or  any  of  your  fraternity,  who  had 
risked  his  life,  aye,  or  lost  it,  in  the  service  of  your  mas¬ 
ter,  or  any  your  master  loved.” 

“Well  said,  dear  youth,”  said  the  stranger,  taking 

105 


io6 


H  ifew  2)a^6  in  Htbens^ 


liis  hand  ;  “and  when  you  have  seen  more  of  the  nymph 
you  so  gallantly  rescued,  you  will  perhaps  think  the 
man  a  no  less  object  of  envy,  who  should  risk  his  life 
for  her,  or  any  she  loved.” 

They  moved  to  the  table,  when  Teontium  whispered 
Theon,  “  Hermachus  of  Mytelene,  the  bosom  friend  of 
Epicurus.” 

‘  ‘  I  thank  you,  ’  ’  replied  Theon,  ‘  ‘  you  have  well  read 
my  curiosity.” 

“The  party  were  about  to  place  themselves,  when  a 
sound  in  the  passage  turned  all  eyes  to  the  door.  “  Yes, 
nurse,  you  may  just  peaceably  let  me  take  my  own  way. 
Go,  go,  I  am  quite  well,  quite  warm  and  quite  active. 
I  tell  you,  you  have  rubbed  my  skin  off — would  you  rub 
away  my  flesh,  too?”  And  in  came,  with  the  light 
foot  of  a  nymph  of  Dian,  the  young  Hedeia.  A  white 
garment,  carelessly  adjusted,  fell,  with  inimitable  grace, 
over  her  airy  form  ;  in  equal  negligence  her  long  hair, 
still  moist  from  the  recent  waves,  and  disheveled  by 
the  anxious  rubbing  of  her  careful  attendant,  hung 
down  her  shoulders  to  her  zone.  Her  face,  though  pale 
from  her  late  alarm  and  fatigue,  beaming  with  life  and 
joy.  Her  full  dark  eyes  sparkling  with  intelligence, 
and  her  lips,  though  their  coral  was  slightly  faded, 
lovely  with  smiles.  In  one  hand  she  held  a  goblet,  in 
the  other  a  chaplet  of  myrtle.  “Which  is  my  hero?” 
she  asked,  in  a  voice  more  sweet  than  the  evening 
zephyr,  as  she  looked  round  the  board.  “  Am  I  right?” 
approaching  Theon.  The  youth,  as  he  gazed  on  the 
lovely  face,  forgot  to  answer.  “Nay,  is  it  a  statue?” 
leaning  forward,  and  gazing  in  her  turn,  as  if  in  curious 
inspection. 

“No  ;  a  slave  !”  said  Theon,  half  smiling,  half  blush- 


B  ffew  in  Htbens* 


107 

ing,  as  he  stooped  his  knee,  while  she  placed  the  gar¬ 
land  on  his  head. 

‘  ‘  I  come  to  pledge  yon,  ’  ’  she  said,  putting  the  cup  to 
her  lips,  “and  to  bid  you  to  pledge  me,’^  presenting  it 
wdth  bewitching  grace  to  the  youth.  He  took  it  with 
speechless  ecstacy  from  her  taper  fingers,  and  turning 
that  side  to  his  mouth  which  had  received  the  touch  of 
hers,  quaffed  off  at  once  the  draught  of  wine  and  love. 

“  Beware  !”  said  a  voice  in  his  ear.  “It  is  the  cup  of 
Circe.”  He  turned,  Polyoenus  stood  behind  him;  but 
when  he  saw  his  motionless  features,  he  could  hardly 
believe  the  whisper  had  been  uttered  by  him. 

“I  know,”  continued  the  fair  one,  pointing  to  the 
table,  “that  there  is  but  cold  beverage  here  for  a  drown¬ 
ed  man.  My  wise  father  may  know  to  give  comfort  to 
the  mind,  but  come  to  my  good  nurse  when  you  want 
the  comfort  of  the  body.  She  is  the  most  skilful  com¬ 
pounder  of  elixirs,  philters  and  every  palatable  medi¬ 
cine,  that  you  might  haply  find  in  all  Greece,  all  Asia, 
aye,  or  all  the  earth.  And  now  make  way,”  putting 
back  the  surrounding  company,  and  leading  Theon  by 
the  arm  to  the  upper  end  of  the  table.  “Behold  the 
king  of  the  feast !” 

“That  is,  if  you  are  the  queen,”  said  the  intoxicated 
youth. 

“Oh!  certainly,”  placing  herself  by  his  side.  “I 
never  refuse  consequence,  whenever  I  can  get  it.” 

“Whenever  you  can  take  it,  you  mean,”  said  the 
master,  laughing. 

“And  is  not  that  everywhere?”  said  Hermachus, 
bowing  to  the  fair  girl. 

“Yes,  I  believe  it  is.  A  pretty  face,  my  friends,  may 
presume  much  ;  a  willful  nature  may  carry  all  things.  I 
have  both  to  perfection  ;  have  I  not?” 


io8 


H  3few  2)aps  in  Htbens* 


“Praise  to  Venus  and  the  Graces,”  said  Leontium, 
“our  sister  has  brought  a  heart  as  gay  from  the  college 
of  Pythagoras  as  she  took  into  it.” 

“To  be  sure  ;  and  did  you  expect  otherwise?  Pshaw  ! 
you  philosophers  know  nothing  of  human  nature.  I 
could  have  told  you  before  this  last  experiment  that 
humor  lies  in  contrast,  and  that  a  wag  will  find  more 
subject  in  a  synod  of  grave  sages  than  a  crew  of  laugh¬ 
ing  wits.  You  must  know,”  turning  to  Theon,  “I 
have  been  on  a  visit  to  a  wise  man,  a  very  wise  man,  who 
hath  followed  from  his  youth  up  the  whim,  and  all  very 
wise  men  have  whims,  of  restoring  the  neglected  school 
of  Pythagoras  to  its  pristine  greatness.  Accordingly,  he 
has  collected  and  brought  up  some  dozen  submissive 
youths  to  his  full  satisfaction  ;  for  not  one  of  them  dare 
know  his  right  hand  from  his  left,  but  on  his  master’s 
authority  doubly  backed  by  that  of  the  great  founder. 
They  have,  in  short,  no  purse  of  their  own,  no  time  of 
their  own,  no  tongue  of  their  own,  no  will  of  their  own, 
and  no  thought  of  their  own.  You  cannot  conceive  a 
more  perfect  community — one  more  virtuously  insipid, 
more  scientifically  absurd,  or  more  wisely  ignorant.” 

“Fie  !  fie  !  you  giddy  girl,”  said  the  master,  smiling 
while  he  tried  to  frown. 

“Giddy?  Not  at  all.  I  am  delivering  grave  matter- 
of-fact  story.” 

“And  we  are  all  ear,”  said  Hermachus,  “so  pray  let 
us  have  the  whole  of  it.” 

“The  whole?  Nay,  you  have  it  already.  An  abode 
of  the  blessed,  a  house  with  twelve  bodies  in  it  and  one 
brain  to  serve  them  all.” 

“Why,”  replied  Hermachus,  “  I  belive  you  have  at 
home  some  hundred  bodies  in  the  same  predicament.” 

“To  be  sure;  and  so  I  told  the  sage  Pythagorean, 


H  jfew  H)aps  in  Htbens* 


109 


when  he  looked  so  complacently  on  his  eleven  pieces  of 
mechanism,  and  assured  him  were  it  not  for  me  there 
would  not  be  a  single  original  in  the  Garden,  save  the 
master.  I  assure  you,  father,  I  gave  just  as  matter-of- 
fact  a  description  of  your  household  as  I  now  do  of  the 
old  Pythagorean’s.  And,  a  most  singular  coincidence,  I 
remember  he  cried,  ‘  Fie  !  fie  !’  just  as  you  did  now. 
Once  more,  it  was  a  most  perfect  household ;  with  the 
men  all  peace,  method,  virtue,  learning  and  absurdity  ; 
with  the  women  all  silence,  order,  ignorance,  modesty 
and  stupidity  !” 

“And  pray,  sister,”  said  Metrodorus,  “what  made 
you  leave  a  society  that  afforded  such  rich  food  to  your 
satire  ?” 

“Because,  brother,  the  richest  food  cloys  the  fastest. 
I  passed  three  days  to  my  perfect  satisfaction  ;  a  fourth 
would  have  killed  me.” 

“And  your  friends,  too,”  said  the  philosopher,  shak¬ 
ing  his  head. 

“Killed  them?  They  never  knew  they  had  life,  till 
I  found  it  out  for  them.  No,  no,  I  left  sore  hearts  be¬ 
hind  me.  The  master,  indeed — ah  !  the  master  !  poor 
man,  shall  I  confess  it?  Before  I  left  the  house  he 
caught  one  of  his  pupils  looking  into  a  mirror  with  a 
candle  !  Heard  that  another  had  stirred  the  fire  with  a 
sword  !  And  oh  !  more  dreadful  than  all,  that  a  third 
had  swallowed  a  bean.*  If  I  could  but  have  stayed 
three  days  longer,  I  might  have  wound  my  girdle  round 
the  necks  of  the  whole  dozen,  brought  them  on  my 
back,  and  laid  them  at  the  feet  of  Epicurus.” 

“  And  what  said  the  master,  all  this  time?”  replied 
Eeontium. 

*  Alluding  to  the  whimsical  superstitions  of  Pythagoras,  or  perhaps 
it  were  more  just  to  say,  of  his  followers. 


no 


H  jfew  H)aps  in  Htbens^ 


“Said  he?  What  said  he?  umph  !  I  never  heard 
what  he  said,  for  I  was  reading  what  he  felt.” 

“And  what  felt  he?”  asked  Herniachus. 

“Just  'wh.dit  yoti  have  felt — and  you,  too,”  looking  at 
Polyoenus.  “Aye,  and  you  also,  very  sage  philoso¬ 
pher;”  and  turning  short  round  to  Theon,  “what  you 
have  to  feel,  if  you  have  not  yet  felt — that  I  was  vastly 
witty,  vastly  amusing  and  vastly  beautiful.” 

“And  do  you  think,”  said  the  Gargettian,  “when 
we  feel  all  this,  we  can’t  be  angry  with  you?” 

“Nay,  what  do  you  think?  But,  no,  no,  I  know  you 
all  better  than  you  know  yourselves.  And  I  think  you 
cannot^  or  if  you  can^  it  is  as  the  poet,  who  curses  the 
muse  he  burns  to  propitiate.  Oh  !  philosophy  !  philoso¬ 
phy  !  thou  usest  hard  maxims  and  showest  a  grave  face, 
yet  thy  maxims  are  but  words  and  thy  face  but  a  mask. 
A  skillful  histrion  who,  when  the  buskin  is  off — paint, 
plaster  and  garment  thrown  aside — stands  no  higher,  no 
fairer  and  no  more  mighty  than  the  youngest,  poorest 
and  simplest  of  thy  gaping  worshippers.  Ah  !  friends  ! 
laugh  and  frown — but  show  me  the  man,  the  wisest,  the 
gravest,  or  the  sourest,  that  a  bright  pair  of  eyes  cannot 
make  a  fool  of !” 

“Ah!  you  proud  girl!”  said  Hermachus,  “tremble! 
Remember,  the  blue-eyed  Sappho  died  at  last  for  a 
Phaon.” 

“Well,  if  such  be  my  fate  I  must  submit.  I  do  not 
deny,  because  I  have  been  wise  hitherto,  that  I  may  not 
turn  fool,  with  the  philosophers,  before  I  die.” 

“What  an  excellent  school  for  the  rearing  of  youth, 
said  the  master,  “the  old  Pythagorean  must  think 
mine  !” 

“Judging  from  me  as  a  specimen,  you  mean.  And 
trust  me  now,  father,  I  am  the  best.  Do  I  not  practice 


Ill 


H  ffew  in  Htbens. 

what  you  preach  ?  What  you  show  the  way  to,  do  I  not 
possess  ?  Look  at  my  light  foot ;  look  in  my  laughing 
eye  ;  read  my  gay  heart,  and  tell  if  pleasure  be  not 
mine.  Confess,  then,  that  I  take  a  shorter  cut  to  the 
goal  than  your  wiser  scholars — aye,  than  your  wisest 
self.  You  study,  you  lecture,  you  argue,  you  exhort. 
And  what  is  it  all  for? — as  if  you  could  not  be  good 
without  so  much  learning  and  happy  without  so  much 
talking.  Here  am  I  ;  I  think  I  am  very  good,  and  I  am 
quite  certain  that  I  am  very  happy  ;  yet  I  never  wrote  a 

treatise  in  my  life,  and  can  hardly  listen  to  one  without 
a  yawn.” 

“Theon,”  said  Epicurus,  smiling,  “  you  see  now  the 
priestess  of  our  midnight  orgies  !” 

“Ah  !  poor  youth,  you  must  have  found  the  Garden 
but  a  dull  place  in  my  absence — but  have  a  little  pa¬ 
tience,  it  will  be  better  in  future.” 

“More  dangerous,”  said  Polyoenus. 

“Never  mind  him,”  whispered  Hedeia,  in  the  Corin¬ 
thian’s  ear,  “he  is  not  the  grave  man  that  a  bright  pair 
of  eyes  cannot  make  a  fool  of.  This  is  very  odd,”  she 
continued,  looking  round  the  board;  “here  am  I,  the 
stranger — and  one,  too,  half  drowned — charged  with  the 
entertaining  of  this  whole  learned  society.” 

“Nay,  my  girl,”  said  the  master,  “thou  hadst  need 
to  be  whole  drowned  ere  your  friends  might  secure  the 
happiness  of  being  listened  to.” 

“  Indeed,  I  believe  it  is  true  ;  and  considering  that  the 
greatest  pleasure  of  life  is  the  being  listened  to,  I  won¬ 
der  how  any  one  was  found  to  pick  me  out  of  the  water. 
The  Corinthian,  to  be  sure,  did  not  know  what  he 
saved  ;  but  that  the  master  should  wet  his  tunic  in  my 
service  is  a  very  unaccountable  circumstance.  Is  there 
any  good  reason  for  it  in  philosophy?” 

“I  am  afraid  none.” 


II2 


S  ipew  Dags  in  atbens. 


“ Or  in  mathematics?”  turning  to  Polyoenus.  “Now, 
just  see  there  a  proof  of  my  argument.  Can  any  man 
look  more  like  wisdom,  or  less  like  happiness  ?  This 
comes  of  diagrams  and  ethics.  My  young  Corinthian, 
take  warning  !’’ 

“I  wish  we  could  fix  you  to  a  diagram,”  said 
keontium. 

“The  Graces  defend  !  And  why  should  you  wish  it? 
Think  you  it  would  make  me  wiser?  Let  Polyoenus  be 
judge,  if  I  am  not  wiser  than  he.  1  admire  the  different 
prescriptions  that  are  given  by  different  doctors.  The 
wife  of  the  good  Pythagorean  recommended  me  as  a 
distaff.  ’  ’ 

“Well,”  said  Hermachus,  “that  might  do  equally.” 

“  Pray,  why  don’t  you  take  one  yourself?” 

“I,  you  see,  am  busy  with  philosophy.” 

“And  so  am  I,  also,  with  laughing  at  it.  Ah!  my 
sage  brother,  every  man  thinks  that  perfection  that  he 
is  himself — that  the  only  knowledge  he  possesses,  and 
that  the  only  pleasure  that  he  pursues.  Trust  me,  there 
are  as  many  ways  of  living  as  there  are  men,  and  one  is 
no  more  fit  to  lead  another  than  a  bird  to  lead  a  fish,  or 
a  fish  a  quadruped.” 

“You  would  make  a  strange  world,  were  you  the 
queen  of  it,”  said  Hermachus,  laughing. 

“Just  as  strange,  and  no  stranger,  than  it  is  at  pres¬ 
ent.  For  why?  I  should  take  it  as  I  found  it,  and 
leave  it  as  I  found  it.  It  is  you,  philosophers,  who 
would  rub  and  twist,  and  plague  and  doctor  it,  and  fret 
your  souls  out  to  bring  all  its  heterogeneous  parts — 
fools,  wits,  knaves,  simpletons,  grave,  gay,  light, 
heavy,  long-faced  and  short-faced,  black,  white,  brown, 
straight  and  crooked,  tall,  short,  thin  and  fat,  to  fit 
together,  and  patiently  refiect  each  other,  like  the 


H  ffew  in  Htbens* 


113 

acorns  of  an  oak,  or  the  modest  wives  and  helpless 
daughters  of  the  good  citizens  of  Athens.  It  is  you,  I 
say,  who  would  make  a  strange  world,  were  you  the 
kings  of  it ;  you  who  would  shorten  and  lengthen,  clip, 
pull,  and  carve  men’s  minds  to  fit  your  systems,  as  the 
tyrant  did  men’s  bodies  to  fit  his  bed.” 

“I  grant  there  is  some  truth,  my  girl,  in  thy  non¬ 
sense,”  said  the  master. 

“And  I  grant  that  there  is  not  a  philosopher  in 
Athens  who  would  have  granted  as  much,  save  thyself. 
You  will  find,  my  young  hero,”  turning  to  Theon, 
“that  my  father  philosophizes  more  sense,  that  is,  less 
absurdity,  than  any  man  since  the  seven  sages,  nay — 
even  than  the  seven  sages  philosophized  themselves. 
He  only  lacks  to  be  a  perfectly  wise  man  — 

“To  burn,”  said  the  master,  “his  books  of  philoso¬ 
phy  and  to  sing  a  tune  to  thy  lyre.” 

“No,  it  shall  do  to  let  me  sing  a  tune  to  it  myself.” 
She  bounded  from  the  couch  and  the  room,  and  return¬ 
ed  in  a  moment  with  the  instrument  in  her  hand. 
“Fear  not,”  she  said,  nodding  to  the  sage,  as  she  light¬ 
ly  swept  the  chords,  “I  shall  not  woo  my  own  lover, 
but  your  mistress  : 

“  Come,  Goddess  !  come  !  not  in  thy  power, 

With  gait  and  garb  austere. 

And  threatening  brow  severe, 

Like  stern  Olympus  in  the  judgment  hour  ; 

But  come  with  looks  the  heart  assuring, 

Come  with  smiling  eyes  alluring. 

Moving  soft  to  Lydian  measures. 

Girt  with  graces,  loves  and  pleasures, 

Bound  with  Basilea’s  zone. 

Come,  Virtue  !  come  !  in  joyous  tone 
We  bid  thee  welcome  to  our  hearth, 

For  well  we  know,  that  thou  alone 
Canst  give  the  purest  bliss  of  earth.” 


H  3Few  2)ap6  in  Htbens* 


114 

“No  thanks,  no  thanks.  I  shall  take  my  own  re¬ 
ward,”  and,  stealing  behind  Epicurus,  she  threw  her 
white  arms  around  his  neck  and  laid  her  cheek  on  his 
lips.  Then  rising,  “Good  dreams  be  with  you,”  and 
waving  round  her  hand,  and  throwing  a  smile  on  Theon, 
vanished  in  an  instant.  The  youth  saw  and  heard  no 
more,  but  sat  as  in  a  dream,  until  the  party  divided. 

“  Have  a  care  !”  whispered  the  master,  as  he  followed 
him  into  the  vestibule.  “Cupid  is  a  knavish  god  ;  he 
can  pierce  the  hearts  of  others,  and  hold  a  shield  before 
his  own.” 


CHAPTER  XIIL 


NIGHT’S  refreshing  airs  fanned  the  cheeks  of  Theon, 
and  rustled  the  myrtle  on  his  brow  ;  but  the  sub¬ 
tle  fever  of  love,  which  swept  through  his  veins  and 
throbbed  in  his  heart  and  temples,  was  far  beyond  their 
cooling  influence.  The  noisy  business  of  life  had  now 
given  place  in  the  streets  to  noisy  merriment.  The 
song  and  the  dance  sounded  from  the  open  portals  ;  and 
the  yoiing  votaries  of  Bacchus,  in  all  the  frenzy  of  the 
god,  rushed  from  the  evening  banquet,  to  the  haunts  of 
midnight  excess,  while  the  trembling  lover  glided  past 
to  the  stolen  interview,  shrinking  even  from  the  light 
of  Day’s  pale  sister.  Theon  turned  abruptly  from  the 
crowd  and  sought  instinctively  a  public  walk,  at  this 
hour  always  private,  where  he  had  frequently  mused  on 
the  mysteries  of  philosophy,  and  taxed  his  immature 
judgment  to  hold  the  balance  between  the  doctrines  of 
her  contending  schools.  No  thoughts  so  deep  and  high 
now  filled  his  youthful  fancy.  He  wandered  on,  his 
senses  steeped  in  delirium  not  less  potent  than  that  of 
wine,  until  his  steps  were  suddenly  arrested  by  a  some¬ 
what  rude  re-encounter  with  a  human  figure  advancing 
with  a  pace  more  deliberate  than  his  own.  He  started 
backwards,  and  his  eyes  met  those  of  Cleanthes.  The 
stoic  paused  a  moment,  then  moved  to  pass  on..  But 
Theon,  however  little  he  might  have  desired  such  a 
companion  at  such  a  moment,  hailed  him  by  name  and 
placed  himself  at  his  side.  Again  Cleanthes  gazed  on 


ii6 


H  ffew  Baps  in  Htbens* 


him  in  silence  ;  when  Theon,  following  the  direction  of 
his  glance,  raised  a  hand  to  his  temples,  and  removed, 
with  a  conscious  blush,  the  offending  garland.  He 
held  it  for  a  moment ;  then,  placing  it  in  his  bosom, — 
“You  misjudge  this  innocent  token;  a  pledge  of  ac¬ 
knowledgment  for  a  life  redeemed  from  the  waves.” 

“Would  that  I  might  receive  a  pledge  of  the  redemp¬ 
tion  of  thy  virtue,  Theon,  from  the  flood  of  destruction  ! 
For  thy  sake  I  have  opened  the  volumes  of  this  smooth 
deceiver.  And  shall  a  few  fair  words  and  a  fairer  coun¬ 
tenance  shield  such  doctrines  from  opprobrium  ?  Shall 
he  who  robs  virtue  of  her  sublimity,  the  gods  of  their 
power,  man  of  his  immortality,  and  creation  of  its  Prov¬ 
idence,  pass  for  a  teacher  of  truth  and  expounder  of  the 
laws  of  Nature?  Where  is  thy  reason,  Theon?  Where 
thy  moral  sense,  to  see  in  doctrines  such  as  these  aught 
but  impiety  and  crime,  or  to  imagine  that  he  who  advo¬ 
cates  them  can  merit  aught  but  the  scorn  of  the  wise  and 
the  opprobrium  of  the  good?” 

“I  know  not  such  to  be  the  doctrines  of  Epicurus,” 
said  the  youth,  “and  you  will  excuse  my  farther  reply 
until  I  shall  have  examined  the  philosophy  you  so  bit¬ 
terly  and  apparently  so  justly  condemn.” 

“The  philosophy?  Honor  it  not  with  the  name.” 

“Nay,”  returned  Theon,  with  a  smile,  “  there  are  so 
many  absurdities  honored  with  that  appellative,  in 
Athens,  that  the  compliment  might  pass'  unchallenged, 
although  applied  to  one  less  worthy  than,  in  my  eyes, 
appears  the  sage  of  Gargettium.  But,”  preventing  the 
angry  interruption  of  the  stoic,  “my  slowness  to  judge 
and  censure  offends  your  enthusiasm.  The  experience 
of  three  days  has  taught  me  this  caution.  My  acquaint¬ 
ance,  as  yet,  is  rather  with  the  philosopher  than  the 
philosophy  ;  my  prejudices  at  first  were  equally  strong 


H  jfew  Da^s  in  Htbens* 


117 

against  both.  Having  discovered  my  error  with  respect 
to  one,  ought  I  not  to  read,  listen  and  examine,  before  I 
condemn  the  other?  And,  the  rather,  as  all  that  I  have 
heard  in  the  Garden  has  hitherto  convinced  my  reason 
and  awakened  my  admiration  and  love.’’ 

“Permit  me  the  question,”  said  Clean thes,  stopping 
short,  and  fixing  his  piercing  glance  on  the  countenance 
of  his  companion, — “  Honor  ye  the  Gods,  and  believe  ye 
in  a  creating  cause  and  a  superintending  Providence?” 

“Surely,  I  do,”  said  Theon. 

“  How,  then,  venerate  ye  the  man  who  proclaims  his 
doubt  of  both  ?” 

“So,  in  my  hearing,  has  never  the  son  of  Neocles.” 

“  But  he  has  and  does  in  the  hearing  of  the  world.” 

“I  have  so  heard,  and  ranked  it  among  the  libels  of 
his  enemies.” 

‘  ‘  He  has  so  written,  and  the  fact  is  acknowledged  by 
his  friends.” 

“I  will  read  his  works,”  said  Theon,  “and  question 
the  writer.  A  mind  more  candid,  whatever  be  its  errors, 
exists  not,  I  am  persuaded,  than  that  of  Epicurus  ;  I 
should  have  said,  also,  a  mind  more  free  of  errors.  But 
he  has  taught  me  to  think  no  mind,  however  wise, 
infallible.” 

“Call  ye  such  doctrines,  errors ?  I  should  rather  term 
them  crimes.” 

“I  object  not  to  the  word,”  said  Theon.  “I  will 
examine  into  this.  The  Gods  have  ye  in  their  keeping  ! 
Good  night.  ’  ’  They  entered  the  city,  and  the  friends 
divided. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


NEASY  thoughts  bred  unquiet  slumbers ;  and 


Theon  rose  from  a  restless  couch,  before  the  first 
blush  of  Aurora  tinged  the  forehead  of  the  sky.  He 
trod  the  paths  of  the  Garden,  and  waited,  with  impa¬ 
tience,  for  the  first  time  not  uninixed  with  apprehen¬ 
sion,  the  appearance  of  the  master.  The  assertions  of 
Cleanthes  were  corroborated  by  the  testimony  of  the 
public  ;  but  that  testimony  he  had  learned  to  despise. 
They  were  made  after  perusal  of  Epicurus’s  writings  ; 
with  these  writings  he  was  still  unacquainted.  Had 
they  been  misinterpreted?  Cleanthes  was  no  Timo- 
crates.  If  prejudiced,  he  was  incapable  of  willful  mis¬ 
representation  ;  and  he  was  too  familiar  with  the  science 
of  philosophy,  so  grossly  to  misunderstand  a  reasoner 
as  lucid  as  appeared  to  be  Epicurus.  These  musings 
were  soon  interrupted.  The  morning  star  still  glowed 
in  the  kindling  east,  when  he  heard  approaching  foot¬ 
steps,  and,  turning  from  the  shades  upon  a  small  open 
lawn,  where  a  crystal  fountain  flowed  from  the  inverted 
urn  of  a  recumbent  naiad,  he  was  greeted  by  the  sage  : 

“Oh!  no!’’  exclaimed  Theon,  half  audibly,  as  he 
gazed  on  the  mild  and  serene  countenance  before  him, 
“this  man  is  not  an  Atheist.’’ 

“What  thoughts  are  with  you,  my  son,  this  morn¬ 
ing?’’  said  the  philosopher,  with  kind  solicitude.  “I 
doubt  your  plunge  in  Illisus  disturbed  your  dreams. 


ii8 


H  ifew  2)a^s  in  Htbens* 


119 

Did  the  image  of  a  fair  nymph,  or  of  a  river  god,  flit 
round  your  couch  and  drive  sleep  from  your  eyelids?” 

“I  was  in  some  danger  from  the  first,”  said  the 
youth,  half  smiling,  half  blushing,  “until  a  visitant  of 
a  different  character,  and  one,  I  imagine,  more  wont  to 
soothe  than  to  disturb  the  mind,  brought  to  my  imagin¬ 
ation  a  host  of  doubts  and  fears  which  your  presence 
alone  has  dispelled.” 

“And  who  played  the  part  of  your  Incubus?”  de¬ 
manded  the  sage. 

“  Even  yourself,  most  benign  and  indulgent  of  men.” 

“  Truly,  I  grieve  to  have  acted  so  ill  by  thee,  my  son. 
It  shall  be  well,  however,  if  having  inflicted  the  disease, 
I  may  be  its  physician.” 

“On  leaving  you  last  night,”  said  Theon,  “  I  en¬ 
countered  Cleanthes.  He  came  from  the  perusal  of 
your  writings,  and  brought  charges  against  them  which 
I  was  unprepared  to  answer.” 

“Let  us  hear  them,  my  son;  perhaps,  until  you 
shall  have  perused  them  yourself,  we  may  assist  your 
difficulty.” 

“  First,  that  they  deny  the  existence  of  the  Gods.” 

“I  see  but  one  other  assertion  that  could  equal  that 
in  folly,”  said  Epicurus. 

“I  knew  it!”  exclaimed  Theon,  triumphantly,  “I 
knew  it  was  impossible.  But  where  will  not  prejudice 
lead  men,  when  even  the  upright  Cleanthes  is  capable 
of  slander?” 

“He  is  utterly  incapable  of  it,”  said  the  master; 
“and  the  inaccuracy,  in  this  case,  I  rather  suspect  to 
rest  with  you  than  with  him.  To  deny  the  existence  of 
the  Gods  would,  indeed,  be  presumption  in  a  philoso¬ 
pher  ;  a  presumption  equalled  only  by  that  of  the  man 
who  should  assert  their  existence.” 


120 


H  ifew  Daps  in  Htbens* 


“How  !”  exclaimed  the  youth,  with  a  countenance  in 
which  astonishment  seemed  to  suspend  every  other 
expression. 

“As  I  never  saw  the  Gods,  my  son,”  calmly  contin¬ 
ued  the  sage,  “I  cannot  assert  their  existence;  and, 
that  I  never  saw  them,  is  no  reason  for  my  denyhig  it.” 

“  But  do  we  believe  nothing  except  that  of  which  we 
have  ocular  demonstration?” 

“Nothing,  at  least,  for  which  we  have  not  the  evi¬ 
dence  of  one  or  more  of  our  senses  ;  that  is  when  we 
believe  on  just  grounds,  which,  I  grant,  taken  men  col¬ 
lectively,  is  very  seldom.” 

“  But  where  would  this  spirit  lead  us?  To  impiety  ! 
To  Atheism  !  To  all  against  which  I  felt  confidence 
in  defending  the  character  and  the  philosophy  of 
Epicurus  !” 

“We  will  examine  presently,  my  son,  into  the  mean¬ 
ing  of  the  terms  you  have  employed.  But,  as  respects 
your  defence  of  my  philosophy,  I  am  sorry  that  you 
presumed  so  much  when  you  knew  so  little.  Eet  this 
serve  for  another  caution  against  pronouncing  before 
you  examine,  and  asserting  before  you  inquire.  It  is 
my  usual  custom,”  continued  the  master,  “with  the 
youth  who  frequent  my  school  to  defer  the  discussion  of 
all  important  questions  until  they  are  naturally,  in  the 
course  of  events,  suggested  to  their  own  minds.  Their 
curiosity  once  excited,  it  is  my  endeavor,  so  far  as  in 
me  lies,  to  satisfy  it.  When  you  first  entered  the 
Garden  your  mind  was  unfit  for  the  examination  of  the 
subject  you  have  now  started  ;  it  is  no  longer  so  ;  and 
we  will,  therefore,  enter  upon  the  inquiry  and  pursue  it 
in  order.” 

“Forgive  me  if  I  express — if  I  acknowledge,”  said  the 
youth,  slightly  recoiling  from  his  instructor,  “some 


H  ffew  Daps  in  Htbens* 


I2I 


reluctance  to  enter  on  the  discussion  of  truths,  whose 
very  discussion  would  seem  to  argue  a  doubt — and - 

“  And  what  then  ?” 

‘‘That  very  doubt  were  a  crime.” 

“  It  is  there  that  I  wished  to  lead  you  ;  and,  with  the 
examination  of  this  point  we  shall  rest,  until  time  and 
circumstances  lead  you  to  push  the  investigation  farther. 
I  have  in  me  but  little  of  the  spirit  of  proselytism.  A 
mere  abstract  opinion,  supposing  it  not  to  affect  the 
conduct  or  the  disposition  of  him  who  holds  it,  would 
be,  in  my  eyes,  of  very  minor  importance.  And  it  is 
only  in  so  far  as  I  believe  that  all  our  opinions,  however 
apparently  removed  from  any  practical  consequences,  do 
always  more  or  less  affect  one  or  the  other,  our  conduct  or 
our  dispositions,  that  I  am  at  the  pains  to  correct  in  my 
scholars  those  which  appear  to  me  erroneous.  I  under¬ 
stand  you  to  say  that  to  enter  upon  the  discussion  of 
certain  opinions,  which  you  consider  as  sacred  truths, 
would  appear  to  argue  a  doubt  of  those  truths,  and  that 
a  doubt  would  here  constitute  a  crime.  Now,  as  I  think 
that  such  a  belief  is  inconsistent  with  candor  and  char¬ 
ity  (two  feelings  indispensable  both  for  the  enjoyment  of 
happiness  ourselves  and  for  its  distribution  to  others),  I 
shall  challenge  its  investigation.  If  the  doubt  of  any 
truth  shall  constitute  a  crime,  then  the  belief  of  the 
same  truth  should  constitute  a  virtue.” 

“  Perhaps  a  duty  would  rather  express  it.” 

“When  you  charge  the  neglect  of  any  duty  as  a 
crime,  or  account  its  fulfillment  a  virtue,  you  suppose 
the  existence  of  a  power  to  neglect  or  fulfill ;  and  it  is 
the  exercise  of  this  power,  in  the  one  way  or  the  other, 
which  constitutes  the  merit  or  the  demerit.  Is  it 
not  so?’ 

“  Certainly.” 


122 


H  3Few  Da^s  in  Htbens* 


‘  ‘  Does  the  human  mind  possess  the  power  to  believe 
or  disbelieve,  at  pleasure,  any  truths  whatsoever?’^ 

“I  am  not  prepared  to  answer.  But  I  think  it  does, 
since  it  possesses  always  the  power  of  investigation.” 

“But,  possibly,  not  the  will  to  exercise  the  power. 
Take  care,  lest  I  beat  you  with  your  owm  weapons.  I 
thought  this  very  investigation  appeared  to  you  a  crime  ?’  ’ 

“Your  logic  is  too  subtle,”  said  the  youth,  “for  my 
inexperience.” 

“Say,  rather,  my  reasoning  is  too  close.  Did  I  bear 
you  down  with  sounding  words  and  weighty  authori¬ 
ties  and  confound  your  understanding  with  hair-drawn 
distinctions,  you  would  be  right  to  retreat  from  the 
battery.  ’  ’ 

‘  ‘  I  have  nothing  to  object  to  the  fairness  of  your 
deductions,”  replied  Theon.  “  But  would  not  the  doc¬ 
trine  be  dangerous  that  should  establish  our  inability  to 
help  our  belief?  And  might  we  not  stretch  the  principle 
until  we  asserted  our  inability  to  help  our  actions?” 

“We  might,  and  with  reason.  But  we  will  not  now 
traverse  the  ethical  pons  ashiorum  of  necessity — the 
most  simple  and  evident  of  moral  truths,  and  the  most 
darkened,  tortured,  and  belabored  by  moral  teachers. 
You  inquire  if  the  doctrine  we  have  essayed  to  establish 
be  not  dangerous?  I  reply — not,  if  it  be  true.  Nothing 
is  so  dangerous  as  error,  nothing  so  safe  as  truth.  A 
dangerous  truth  would  be  a  contradiction  in  terms,  and 
an  anomaly  in  things.” 

“  But  what  is  a  truth  ?”  said  Theon. 

“It  is  pertinently  asked.  A  truth  I  consider  to  be  an 
ascertained  fact ;  which  truth  would  be  changed  into  an 
error,  the  moment  the  fact,  on  which  it  rested,  was 
disproved.” 

“I  see,  then,  no  fixed  basis  for  truth.” 


H  ffew  Wa^s  in  Htbens* 


123 


‘‘It  surely  has  the  most  fixed  of  all — the  nature  of 
things.  And  it  is  only  an  imperfect  insight  into  that 
nature,  which  occasions  all  our  erroneous  conclusions, 
whether  in  physics  or  morals.’’ 

“But  where,  if  we  discard  the  Gods,  and  their  will, 
as  engraved  on  our  hearts,  are  our  guides  in  the  search 
after  truth?’’ 

“Our  senses  and  our  faculties,  as  developed  in  and  by 
the  exercise  of  our  senses,  are  the  only  guides  with 
which  I  am  acquainted.  And  I  do  not  see  why,  even 
admitting  a  belief  in  the  Gods,  and  in  a  superintending 
Providence,  the  senses  should  not  be  viewed  as  the 
guides,  provided  by  them,  for  our  direction  and  instruc¬ 
tion.  But  here  is  the  evil  attendant  on  an  ungrounded 
belief,  whatever  be  its  nature.  The  moment  we  take 
one  thing  for  granted  we  take  other  things  for  granted  ; 
we  are  started  on  a  wrong  road,  and  it  is  seldom  that  we 
can  gain  the  right  one  until  we  have  trodden  back  our 
steps  to  the  starting  place.  I  know  of  but  one  thing 
that  a  philosopher  should  take  for  granted,  and  that 
only  because  he  is  forced  to  it  by  an  irresistible  impulse 
of  his  nature,  and  because,  without  doing  so,  neither 
truth  nor  falsehood  could  exist  for  him.’’ 

“  He  must  take  for  granted  the  evidence  of  his  senses  ; 
in  other  words,  he  must  believe  in  the  existence  of 
things,  as  they  exist  to  his  senses.  I  know  of  no  other 
existence,  and  can,  therefore,  believe  in  no  other  ;  al¬ 
though  reasoning  from  analogy,  I  may  imagine  other 
existences  to  be.  This,  for  instance,  I  do  as  respect  the 
Gods.  I  see  around  me  in  the  world  I  inhabit  an 
infinite  variety  in  the  arrangement  of  matter  ;  a  niulti- 
tude  of  sentient  beings,  possessing  different  kinds,  and 
varying  grades,  of  power  and  intelligence — from  the 
worm  that  crawls  in  the  dust,  to  the  eagle  that  soars  to 


124 


H  ffew  Daps  in  Htbens* 


the  sun,  and  man  who  marks  to  the  sun  its  course.  It 
is  possible,  it  is  moreover  probable,  that  in  the  worlds 
which  I  see  not — in  the  boundless  infinitude  and  eternal 
duration  of  matter,  beings  may  exist,  of  every  countless 
variety,  and  varying  grades  of  intelligence,  inferior  and 
superior  to  our  own,  until  we  descend  to  a  minimum, 
and  rise  to  a  maximum,  to  which  the  range  of  our 
observation  affords  no  parallel,  and  of  which  our  senses 
are  inadequate  to  the  conception. 

“Thus  far,  my  young  friend,  I  believe  in  the  Gods, 
or  in  what  you  will  of  the  existences  removed  from  the 
sphere  of  my  knowledge.  That  you  should  believe, 
with  positiveness,  in  one  unseen  existence  or  another, 
appears  to  me  no  crime,  although  it  may  appear  to  me 
unreasonable  ;  and  so,  my  doubt  of  the  same  should 
appear  to  you  of  no  moral  offence,  although  you  might 
account  it  erroneous.  I  fear  to  fatigue  your  attention, 
and  will,  therefore,  dismiss  for  the  present  these  abstruse 
subjects. 

“  But  we  shall  both  be  amply  repaid  for  their  discus¬ 
sion  if  this  truth  remains  with  you— that  an  opinion, 
right  or  wrong,  can  never  constitute  a  moral  offence,  nor 
be  in  itself  a  moral  obligation.  It  may  be  mistaken  ;  it 
may  involve  an  absurdity  or  a  contradiction — it  is  a 
truth,  or  it  is  an  error  ;  it  can  never  be  a  crime  or  a 
virtue.  ’  ’ 


CHAPTER  XV. 


THEON  remained  transfixed  to  the  same  spot  of  earth 
on  which  the  sage  left  him.  A  confused  train  of 
thoughts  traveled  through  his  brain,  which  his  reason 
sought  in  vain  to  arrest  or  to  analyze.  At  one  moment 
it  seemed  as  if  a  ray  of  light  had  dawned  upon  his  mind, 
opening  to  it  a  world  of  discovery  as  interesting  as  it 
was  novel.  Then  suddenly  he  started  as  from  the  brink 
of  a  precipice,  whose  depths  were  concealed  in  darkness. 
“Cleanthes  then  had  very  justly  expounded  the  doc¬ 
trines  of  the  Garden.  But  did  these  doctrines  involve 
the  delinquency  which  he  had  hitherto  supposed  ?  Were 
they  inconsistent  with  reason,  and  irreconcilable  with 
virtue?  If  so,  I  shall  be  able  to  detect  their  fallacy,’^ 
said  the  youth,  pursuing  his  soliloquy  aloud.  “It  were 
a  poor  compliment  to  the  truths  I  have  hitherto  believed 
in  and  worshipped,  did  I  shrink  from  their  investiga¬ 
tion.  And  yet,  to  question  the  power  of  the  Gods  !  To 
question  their  very  existence  !  To  refuse  the  knee  of 
homage  to  that  great  first  cause  of  all  things  that  speaks 
and  breathes  and  shines  resplendent  throughout  all  ani¬ 
mated  Nature  !  To  dispute  I  know  not  what — of  truths, 
as  self-evident  as  they  are  sacred,  which  speak  to  our 
eyes  and  to  our  ears,  to  those  very  senses  whose  testi¬ 
mony  alone  is  without  appeal  in  the  Garden  !” 

“Do you  object  to  the  testimony,  young  Corinthian ?“ 
said  a  voice,  which  Theon  recognized  as  that  of  Metro- 
dorus. 


125 


126 


H  ffew  Baps  in  Htbens, 


“You  arrive  opportunely,”  said  Theon  ;  “that  is,  if 
you  will  listen  to  the  questions  of  my  doubting  and 
embarrassed  mind.” 

“Say,  rather,  if  I  can  answer  them.” 

“I  attribute  to  you  the  ability,”  said  Theon,  “since 
I  have  heard  you  quoted  as  an  able  expounder  of  the 
philosophy  of  the  Garden.” 

“In  the  absence  of  our  Zeno,”  replied  the  scholar, 
with  a  smile,  “I  sometimes  play  the  part  of  his  Cleanthes. 
And  though  you  may  find  me  less  eloquent  than  my 
brother  of  the  Porch,  I  will  promise  equal  fidelity  to  the 
text  of  my  original.  But  here  is  one,  who  can  expound 
the  doctrine  in  the  letter  and  the  spirit ;  and,  with  such 
an  assistant,  I  should  not  fear  to  engage  all  the  scholars 
and  all  the  masters  in  Athens.” 

“Nay,  boast  rather  of  thy  cause  than  of  thy  assist¬ 
ant,”  said  Teontium,  approaching,  and  playfully  tap¬ 
ping  the  shoulder  of  Metrodorus  ;  “nor  yet  belie  thy 
own  talents,  my  brother.  The  Corinthian  will  smile  at 
thy  false  modesty,  when  he  shall  have  studied  thy  writ¬ 
ings  and  listened  to  thy  logical  discourses.  I  imagine,” 
she  continued,  turning  her  placid  gaze  on  the  youth, 
“that  you  have  hitherto  listened  to  more  declamation 
than  reasoning.  I  might  also  say,  to  more  sophistry, 
seeing  that  you  have  walked  and  talked  in  the  Lyceum.” 

^‘Say  rather,  walked  and  listened.” 

‘  ‘  In  truth,  and  I  believe  it,  ’  ’  she  returned  with  a  smile, 
“and  would  that  your  good  sense  in  this  were  more 
common  ;  and  that  men  would  rest  content  with  strain¬ 
ing  their  ears,  and  forbear  from  submitting  their  under¬ 
standings,  or  torturing  those  of  their  neighbors  ” 

“It  might  seem  strange,”  said  Metrodorus,  “that  the 
pedantry  of  Aristotle  should  find  so  many  imitators,  and 
his  dark  sayings  so  many  believers,  in  a  city,  too,  now 


H  jfew  Dass  In  Etbens. 


127 


graced  and  enlightened  by  the  simple  language  and 
simple  doctrines  of  an  Epicurus.  But  the  language  of 
truth  is  too  simple  for  inexperienced  ears.  We  start  in 
search  of  knowledge,  like  the  demigods  of  old  in  search 
of  adventure,  prepared  to  encounter  giants,  to  scale 
mountains,  to  pierce  into  Tartarean  gulfs,  and  to  carry 
off  our  prize  from  the  gripe  of  some  dark  enchanter,  invul¬ 
nerable  to  all  save  to  charmed  weapons  and  Deity-gifted 
assailants.  To  find  none  of  all  these  things,  but,  in 
their  stead,  a  smooth  road  through  a  pleasant  country, 
with  a  familiar  guide  to  direct  our  curiosity,  and  point 
out  the  beauties  of  the  landscape,  disappoints  us  of  all 
exploit  and  all  notoriety  ;  and  our  vanity  turns  but  too 
often  from  the  fair  and  open  campaign,  into  error’s 
dark  labyrinths,  where  we  easily  mistake  mystery  for 
wisdom,  pedantry  for  knowledge  and  prejudice  for 
virtue.” 

“  I  admit  the  truth  of  the  metaphor,”  said  Theon. 
“But  may  we  not  simplify  too  much  as  well  as  too 
little?  May  we  not  push  investigation  beyond  the 
limits  assigned  to  human  reason,  and,  with  a  boldness 
approaching  to  profanity,  tear,  without  removing,  the 
veil  which  enwraps  the  mysteries  of  creation  from  our 
scrutiny?” 

“  Without  challenging  the  meaning  of  the  terms  you 
have  employed,”  said  Metrodorus,  “I  would  observe 
that  there  is  little  danger  of  our  pushing  investigation 
too  far.  Unhappily  the  limits  prescribed  to  us  by  our 
few  and  imperfect  senses  must  ever  cramp  the  sphere  of 
our  observation,  as  compared  to  the  boundless  range  of 
things  ;  and  that  even  when  we  shall  have  strained  and 
improved  our  senses  to  the  uttermost.  We  trace  an 
effect  to  a  cause,  and  that  cause  to  another  cause,  and 
so  on,  till  we  hold  some  few  links  of  a  chain,  whose 


128  H  jfew  In  Htbens* 

extent,  like  the  charmed  circle,  is  without  beginning  as 
without  end.’’ 

“I  apprehend  the  difficulties,”  observed  Leontium, 
“  which  embarrass  the  mind  of  our  young  friend.  Like 
most  aspirants  after  knowledge,  he  has  a  vague  and 
incorrect  idea  of  what  he  is  pursuing,  and  still  more,  of 
what  may  be  attained.  In  the  schools  you  have  hitherto 
frequented,”  she  continued,  addressing  the  youth,  “cer¬ 
tain  images  of  virtue,  vice,  knowledge,  truth,  are  pre¬ 
sented  to  the  imagination, "and  these  abstract  qualities, 
or  we  may  call  them,  figurative  beings,  are  made  at 
once  the  objects  of  speculation  and  adoration.  A  law  is 
laid  down,  and  the  feelings  and  opinions  of  men  are 
predicated  on  it ;  a  theory  is  built,  and  all  animate  and 
inanimate  Nature  is  made  to  speak  in  its  support  ;  an 
hypothesis  is  advanced,  and  all  the  mysteries  of  Nature 
are  treated  as  explained.  You  have  heard  of,  and 
studied  various  systems  of  philosophy  ;  but  real  philoso¬ 
phy  is  opposed  to  all  systems.  Her  whole  business  is 
observation  ;  and  the  results  of  that  observation  consti¬ 
tute  all  her  knowledge.  She  receives  no  truths,  until 
she  has  tested  them  by  experience  ;  she  advances  no 
opinions,  unsupported  by  the  testimony  of  facts;  she 
acknowledges  no  virtue,  but  that  involved  in  beneficial 
actions  ;  no  vice,  but  that  involved  in  actions  hurtful  to 
ourselves  or  to  others.  Above  all,  she  advances  no 
dogmas — is  slow  to  assert  what  A,  and  calls  nothing 
impossible. 

“The  science  of  philosophy  is  simply  a  science  of 
observation,  both  as  regards  the  world  without  us,  and 
the  world  within  ;  and,  to  advance  in  it,  are  requisite 
only  sound  senses,  well  developed  and  exercised  facul¬ 
ties,  and  a  mind  free  of  prejudice.  The  objects  she  has 
in  view,  as  regards  the  external  world,  are,  first,  to  see 


H  few  IDass  in  atbens. 


129 


things  as  they  really  are,  and,  secondly,  to  examine 
their  structure,  to  ascertain  their  properties,  and  to 
observe  their  relations  one  to  the  other.  As  respects 
the  world  within,  or  the  philosophy  of  mind,  the  real 
philosophy  of  which  I  have  spoken,  has  in  view,  first, 
to  examine  our  sensations,  or  the  impressions  of  exter¬ 
nal  things  on  our  senses  ;  which  operation  involves,  and 
is  involved  in,  the  examination  of  those  external  things 
themselves  ;  secondly,  to  trace  back  to  our  sensations 
the  first  development  of  all  our  faculties ;  and  again, 
from  these  sensations,  and  the  exercise  of  our  different 
faculties  as  developed  by  them,  to  trace  the  gradual 
formation  of  our  moral  feelings,  and  of  all  our  other 
emotions  ;  thirdly,  to  analyze  all  these  our  thoughts, 
sensations  and  emotions — that  is,  to  examine  the  quali¬ 
ties  of  our  own  internal,  sentient  matter,  with  the  same, 
and  yet  more,  closeness  of  scrutiny  than  we  have  ap¬ 
plied  to  the  examination  of  the  matter  that  is  without 
us  ;  finally,  to  investigate  the  justness  of  our  moral  feel¬ 
ings,  and  to  w^eigh  the  merit  and  demerit  of  human 
actions  ;  w^hich  is,  in  other  words,  to  judge  of  their  ten¬ 
dency  to  produce  good  or  evil — to  excite  pleasurable  or 
painful  feelings  in  ourselves  or  others.  You  will  ob¬ 
serve,  therefore,  that  both  as  regards  the  philosophy  of 
physics  and  the  philosophy  of  mind,  all  is  simply  a 
process  of  investigation.  It  is  a  journey  of  discovery,  in 
which  ill  the  one  case  we  commission  our  senses  to 
examine  the  qualities  of  that  matter  which  is  around  us, 
and  in  the  other  endeavor,  by  attention  to  the  varieties 
of  our  consciousness,  to  gain  a  knowledge  of  those 
qualities  of  matter  which  constitute  our  susceptibilties 
of  thought  and  feeling.” 

“This  explanation  is  new  to  me,”  observed  Theon, 


130 


H  jfew  Daigs  in  Htbens* 


“and,  I  will  confess,  startling  to  my  imagination.  It  is 
pure  Materialism  !” 

“You  may  so  call  it,”  rejoined  I^eontium,  “but  when 
you  have  so  called  it — what  then?  The  question  re¬ 
mains  :  Is  it  true,  or  is  it  false?” 

“I  should  be  disposed  to  say — false,  since  it  confounds 
all  my  preconceived  notions  of  truth  and  error,  of  right 
and  wrong.” 

“Of  truth  and  error,  of  right  and  wrong,  in  the  sense 
of  correct  or  mcorrect^  is,  I  presume,  your  meaning,” 
said  Teontium.  “You  do  not  involve  moral  rectitude, 
on  the  contrary,  in  the  matter  of  opinion?” 

“If  the  opinion  have  a  moral  or  immoral  tendency,  I 
do,”  said  the  youth. 

“A  simple  matter-of-fact  can  have  no  such  tendency, 
or  ought  not,  if  we  are  rational  creatures.” 

“And  would  not,  if  we  were  always  reasoning  be¬ 
ings,”  said  Metrodorus  ;  “but  as  the  ignorance  and 
superstition  which  surround  our  infancy  and  youth 
favor  the  development  of  the  imagination  at  the  expense 
of  the  judgment,  we  are  ever  employed  in  the  coining  of 
chimeras  rather  than  in  the  discovery  of  truths  ;  and  if 
ever  the  poor  judgment  make  an  effort  to  dispel  these 
fancies  of  the  brain,  she  is  repulsed,  like  a  sacrilegious 
intruder  into  religious  mysteries.” 

“Until  our  opinions  are  made  to  rest  on  facts,”  said 
Ueontium,  “the  error  of  our  young  friend  (the  most 
dangerous  of  all  errors,  being  one  of  principle,  and 
involving  many)  must  ever  pervade  the  world.  And  it 
was  because  I  suspected  this  leading  misconception  of 
the  very  nature — of  the  very  end  and  aim  of  the 
science  he  is  pursuing — that  I  attempted  an  explana¬ 
tion  of  what  should  be  sought,  and  of  what  can  alone 
be  attained.  In  philosophy,  that  is,  in  knowledge. 


H  Jfew  Daps  in  Htbens^ 


131 

inquiry  is  everything  ;  theory  and  hypothesis  are  worse 
than  nothing.  Truth  is  but  approved  facts.  Truth, 
then,  is  one  with  the  knowledge  of  these  facts.  To 
shrink  from  inquiry,  is  to  shrink  from  knowledge. 
And  to  prejudge  an  opinion  as  true  or  false,  be¬ 
cause  it  interferes  with  some  preconceived  abstraction 
we  call  vice  or  virtue,  is  as  if  we  were  to  draw  the  pic¬ 
ture  of  a  man  we  had  never  seen,  and  then,  upon  seeing 
him,  were  to  dispute  his  being  the  man  in  question 
because  unlike  our  picture.” 

“  But  if  this  opinion  interfered  with  another,  of  whose 
truth  we  imagined  ourselves  certain?” 

‘‘Then  clearly,  in  one  or  the  other,  we  are  mistaken  ; 
and  the  only  way  to  settle  the  difficulty,  is  to  examine 
and  compare  the  evidences  of  both.” 

“  But  are  there  not  some  truths  self-evident?” 

‘  ‘  There  are  a  few  which  we  may  so  call.  That  is  to 
say,  they  are  some  facts,  which  we  admit  upon  the 
evidence  of  a  simple  sensation  ;  as,  for  instance,  that  a 
whole  is  greater  than  its  part ;  that  two  are  more  than 
one  ;  which  we  receive  immediately  upon  the  testimony 
of  our  sense  of  sight  or  of  touch.” 

‘‘  But  are  there  no  moral  truths  of  the  same  nature?” 

‘‘lam  not  aware  of  any.  Moral  truth,  resting  en¬ 
tirely  upon  the  ascertained  consequences  of  actions, 
supposes  a  process  of  observation  and  reasoning.” 

‘‘What  call  you,  then,  a  belief  in  a  presiding  Provi¬ 
dence,  and  a  great  first  cause?” 

‘‘  A  belief  resting  upon  testimony  ;  which  belief  will 
be  true  or  false,  according  to  the  correctness  or  incor¬ 
rectness  of  that  testimony.” 

“Is  it  not  rather  a  self-evident  moral  truth?” 

“In  my  answer,  I  shall  have  to  divide  your  question 
into  two.  First,  it  cannot  be  a  moral  truth,  since  it  is 


132 


H  fcvo  in  Htbens* 


not  deduced  from  the  consequences  of  human  action. 
It  can  be  simply  a  truth,  that  is,  a  fact.  Secondly,  it  is 
not  a  self-evident  truth,  since  it  is  not  evident  to  all 
minds,  and  frequently  becomes  less  and  less  evident  the 
more  it  is  examined.” 

“But  is  not  the  existence  of  a  first  or  creating  cause 
demonstrated  to  our  senses,  by  all  we  see  and  hear  and 
feel  ?” 

“The  existence  of  all  that  we  can  see  and  hear  and 
feel  is  demonstrated  to  our  senses  ;  and  the  belief  we 
yield  to  this  existence  is  immediate  and  irresistible,  that 
is  intuitive.  The  existence  of  the  creating  cause,  that 
you  speak  of,  is  not  demonstrated  to  our  senses  ;  and, 
therefore,  the  belief  in  it  cannot  be  immediate  and  irre¬ 
sistible.  I  prefer  the  expression  ‘creating^  to  ‘first’ 
cause,  because  it  seems  to  present  a  more  intelligible 
meaning.  When  you  shall  have  examined  farther  into 
the  phenomena  of  Nature^  you  will  see  that  there  can  be 
as  little  a  first  as  a  last  caused 

“I  suppose  it  a  Being  unchangeable  and  eternal,  itself 
unproduced.” 

“Unchangeable  it  may  be  ;  eternal  it  must  be,  since 
everything  is  eternal.” 

“  Kvery thing  eternal  ?” 

“  Yes  ;  that  is,  the  elements  composing  all  substances 
are,  so  far  as  we  know,  and  can  reason,  eternal,  and  in 
their  nature  unchangeable  ;  and  it  is  apparently  only 
the  different  disposition  of  these  eternal  and  unchange¬ 
able  atoms  that  produces  all  the  varieties  in  the  sub¬ 
stances  constituting  the  great  material  whole,  of  which 
we  form  a  part.  Those  particles,  whose  peculiar  ag¬ 
glomeration  or  arrangement  we  call  a  vegetable  to-day, 
then  pass  into,  and  form  part  of,  an  animal  to-morrow  ; 
and  that  animal  again,  by  the  falling  asunder  of  its  con- 


H  ifew  Da^s  in  Htbens^ 


133 


stituent  atoms,  and  the  different  approximation  and 
agglomeration  of  the  same,  or  of  the  same  with  other 
atoms,  is  transformed  into  some  other  substance,  pre¬ 
senting  a  new  assemblage  of  qualities. 

“To  this  simple  exposition  of  the  phenomena  of 
Nature  (which  you  will  observe,  is  not  explaining  their 
wonders  but  only  observing  them),  we  are  led  by  the 
exercise  of  our  senses.  In  studying  the  existences  which 
surround  us,  it  is  clearly  our  business  to  use  our  eyes 
and  not  our  imaginations.  To  see  things  as  they  are  is 
all  we  should  attempt,  and  is  all  that  is  possible  to  be 
done.  Unfortunately  we  can  do  but  little  even  here,  as 
our  eyes  serve  us  to  see  but  a  very  little  way.  But,  were 
our  eyes  better — were  they  so  good  as  to  enable  us  to 
observe  all  the  arcana  of  matter,  we  could  never  acquire 
any  other  knowledge  of  them  than  that  they  are  as  they 
are  ;  and,  in  knowing  this,  that  is,  in  seeing  every  link 
in  the  chain  of  occurrences,  we  should  know  all  that  even 
an  omniscient  being  could  know.  One  astronomer  traces 
the  course  of  the  sun  around  the  earth,  another  imag¬ 
ines  that  of  the  earth  round  the  sun.  Some  future 
improvements  in  science  may  enable  us  to  ascertain 
which  conjecture  is  the  true  one.  We  shall  then  have 
ascertained  a  fact,  which  fact  may  lead  to  the  discovery 
of  other  facts,  and  so  on. 

“Until  this  plain  and  simple  view  of  the  nature  of  all 
science  be  generally  received,  all  the  advances  we  may 
make  in  it  are  comparatively  as  nothing.  Until  we 
occupy  ourselves  in  examining,  observing  and  ascertain¬ 
ing,  and  not  in  explaining^  we  are  idly  and  childishly 
employed.  With  every  truth  we  may  discover,  we  shall 
mix  a  thousand  errors  ;  and,  for  one  matter-of-fact,  we 
shall  charge  our  brain  with  a  thousand  fancies.  To 
this  leading  misconception  of  the  real,  and  only  possible 


134 


H  ffew  H)a^s  in  Htbens* 


object  of  philosophical  inquiry,  I  incline  to  attribute  all 
the  modes  and  forms  of  human  superstition.  The  vague 
idea  that  some  mysterious  cause  not  precedes  but 

produces  the  effect  we  behold,  occasions  us  to  wander 
from  the  real  object  in  search  of  an  imaginary  one.  We 
see  the  sun  rise  in  the  east ;  instead  of  confining  our 
curiosity  to  the  discovery  of  the  time  and  manner  of  its 
rising,  and  of  its  course  in  the  heavens,  we  ask  also — 
why  does  it  rise?  What  makes  it  move?  The  more 
ignorant  immediately  conceive  some  Being  spurrring  it 
through  the  heavens,  with  fiery  steeds  and  on  wheels  of 
gold,  while  the  more  learned  tell  ns  of  laws  of  motion, 
decreed  by  an  Almighty  fiat  and  sustained  by  an  Al¬ 
mighty  will.  Imagine  the  truth  of  both  suppositions. 
In  the  one  case,  we  should  see  the  application  of  what 
we  call  physical  power  in  the  driver,  and  the  steeds 
followed  by  the  motion  of  the  sun  ;  and  in  the  other,  an 
Almighty  volition,  followed  by  the  motion  of  the  sun. 
But,  in  either  case,  should  we  understand  why  the  sun 
moved? — why  or  how  its  motion  followed  what  we  call 
the  impulse  of  the  propelling  power,  or  the  propelling 
volition  ?  All  that  we  could  thejt  know,  more  than  we 
now  know,  would  be,  that  the  occurrence  of  the  motion 
of  the  sun  was  preceded  by  another  occurrence  ;  and  if 
we  aftewards  frequently  observed  the  same  sequence  of 
occurrences  they  would  become  associated  in  our  mind 
as  necessary  precedent  and  consequent,  as  cause  and 
effect;  and  we  might  give  to  them  the  appellation  of 
law  of  Nature,  or  any  other  appellation  ;  but  they 
would  still  constitute  merely  a  truth,  that  is,  a  fact^  and 
envelope  no  other  mystery  than  that  involved  in  every 
occurrence  and  every  existence.” 

“  But,  according  to  this  doctrine,”  replied  Theon, 
“there  would  be  no  less  reason  in  attributing  the  beau- 


H  jfew  Dai^s  in  Htbens* 


135 


tiful  arrangement  of  the  material  world  to  the  motion 
of  a  horse  than  to  the  volition  of  an  Almighty 
mind.” 

“  If  I  saw  the  motion  of  a  horse  followed  by  the  effect 
you  speak  of,  I  should  believe  in  some  relation  between 
them.  And  if  I  saw  it  follow  the  volition  of  an  Al¬ 
mighty  mind — the  same.” 

“  But  the  cause  would  be  inadequate  to  the  ejBfect — is 
it  not  so?” 

“It  could  not  be  so,  if  it  were  the  cause.  For  what 
constitutes  the  adequacy  of  which  you  speak  ?  Clearly, 
only  the  contact,  or  immediate  proximity,  of  the  two 
occurrences.  If  any  sequence  could,  in  fact,  be  more 
wonderful  than  another,  it  should  rather  seem  to  be  for 
the  consequent  to  impart  grandeur  to  the  precedent — 
the  effect  to  the  cause — than  for  the  cause  to  impart 
grandeur  to  the  effect.  But,  in  reality,  all  sequences  are 
equally  wonderful.  That  light  should  follow  the  ap¬ 
pearance  of  the  sun  is  just  as  wonderful,  and  no  more 
so,  as  if  it  were  to  follow  the  appearance  of  any  other 
body  ;  and  did  light  follow  the  appearance  of  a  black 
stone,  it  would  excite  astonishment  simply  because  we 
never  saw  light  follow  such  an  appearance  before.  Ac¬ 
customed,  as  we  now  are,  to  see  light  when  the  sun 
rises,  our  wonder  would  be  if  we  did  not  see  light 
when  he  rose.  But  were  light  regularly  to  attend  the 
appearance  of  any  other  body,  our  astonishment  at  such 
a  sequence  would,  after  a  time,  cease  ;  and  we  should 
then  say,  as  we  now  say,  there  is  light,  because  such  a 
body  has  risen  ;  and  imagine  then^  as  we  imagine  Jiow^ 
that  we  understand  why  light  is. 

“In  like  manner  all  existences  are  equally  wonderful. 
An  African  lion  is  in  himself  nothing  more  extraordin¬ 
ary  than  a  Grecian  horse  ;  although  the  whole  people  of 


136 


H  tfew  S>ap6  in  Htbens* 


Athens  will  assemble  to  gaze  on  the  lion,  and  exclaim, 

‘  How  wonderful  !’  while  no  man  observes  the  horse.’’ 

“True — but  this  is  the  wondering  of  ignorance.” 

“I  reply — true  again,  but  so  is  all  wondering.  If, 
indeed,  we  should  consider  it  in  this  and  in  all  other 
cases  as  simply  an  emotion  of  pleasurable  surprise,  ac¬ 
knowledging  the  presence  of  a  novel  object,  the  feeling 
is  perfectly  rational  ;  but  if  it  imagine  anything  more 
intrinsically  marvelous  in  the  novel  existence,  than  in 
the  familiar  one,  it  is  then  clearly  the  idle — that  is,  the 
unreasoned  and  unreflected  marveling  of  ignorance. 
There  is  but  one  real  wonder  to  the  thinking  mind,  it  is 
the  existence  of  all  things — that  is,  the  existence  of 
matter.  And  the  only  rational  ground  of  this  one  great 
wonder  is,  that  the  existence  of  matter  is  the  last  link 
in  the  chain  of  cause  and  effect  at  which  we  can  arrive. 
You  imagine  yet  another  link — the  existence  of  a  power 
creating  that  matter.  My  only  objections  to  this  addi¬ 
tional  link,  or  superadded  cause,  are,  that  it  is  imag¬ 
ined^  and  that  it  leaves  the  wonder  as  before  ;  unless, 
indeed,  we  should  say  that  it  has  superadded  other  won¬ 
ders,  since  it  supposes  a  power,  or,  rather,  an  existence 
possessing  a  power,  of  which  we  never  saw  an  example.’’ 

“How  so?  Does  not  even  man  possess  a  species  of 
creating  power?  And  do  you  not  suppose,  in  your 
inert  matter,  that  very  property  which  others  attribute, 
with  more  reason  it  appears  to  me,  to  some  superior  and 
unknown  existence?’’ 

“By  no  means.  No  existence,  that  we  know  of, 
possesses  creating  power,  in  the  sense  you  suppose. 
Neither  the  existence  we  call  a  man,  nor  any  other  of 
the  existences,  comprised  under  the  generic  names  of 
matter,  physical  world,  nature,  etc.,  possesses  the  power 
of  calling  into  being  its  own  constituent  elements,  nor 


H  3Few  Da^s  in  Htbens* 


137 


the  constituent  elements  of  any  other  substance.  It  can 
change  one  substance  into  another  substance,  by  alter¬ 
ing  the  position  of  its  particles,  or  intermingling  them 
with  others  ;  but  it  cannot  call  into  being,  any  more 
than  it  can  annihilate  those  particles  themselves.  The 
hand  of  man  causes  to  approach  particles  of  earth  and 
of  water,  and  by  their  approximation  produces  clay  ;  to 
which  clay  it  gives  a  regular  form,  and,  by  the  applica¬ 
tion  of  fire,  produces  the  vessel  we  call  a  vase.  You 
may  say  that  the  hand  of  man  creates  the  vase  ;  but  it 
does  not  create  the  earth  or  the  water  or  the  fire ; 
neither  has  the  admixture  of  these  substances  added  to 
or  subtracted  from  the  sum  of  their  elementary  atoms. 
Observe,  therefore,  there  is  no  analogy  between  the 
power  inherent  in  matter  of  changing  its  appearance 
and  qualities  by  a  simple  change  in  the  position  of  its 
particles  and  that  which  you  attribute  to  some  unseen 
existence,  who  by  a  simple  volition,  should  have  called 
into  being  matter  itself,  with  all  its  wonderful  proper¬ 
ties.  An  existence  posessing  such  a  power  I  have  never 
seen  ;  and  though  this  says  nothing  against  the  possibil¬ 
ity  of  such  an  existence,  it  says  everything  against  my 
belief  in  it.  And  farther,  the  power  which  you  attribute 
to  this  existence — that  of  willing  everything  out  of 
nothing — being,  not  only  what  I  have  never  seen,  but 
that  of  which  I  cannot  with  any  distinctness  conceive — 
must  appear  to  me  the  greatest  of  all  improbabilities.” 

“Our  young  friend,”  observed  Metrodorus,  “lately 
made  use  of  an  expression,  the  error  involved  in  which 
seems  to  be  at  the  root  of  his  difficulty.  In  speaking  of 
matter,”  he  continued,  turning  to  Theon,  “you  em¬ 
ployed  the  epithet  mert.  What  is  your  meaning?  And 
what  matter  do  you  here  designate?” 

“All  matter  surely  is,  in  itself,  inert.” 


138 


H  3few  Bai^s  in  Htbens. 


“All  matter  surely  is,  in  itself,  as  it  is,”  said  Metro- 
dorus,  with  a  smile  ;  “and  that,  I  should  say,  is  living 
and  active.  Again,  what  is  matter?” 

“All  that  is  evident  to  our  senses,”  replied  Theon, 
“and  which  stands  opposed  to  mind.” 

“All  matter,  then,  is  inert  which  is  devoid  of  mind. 
What,  then,  do  you  understand  by  mind?” 

“I  conceive  some  error  in  my  definition,”  said  Theon, 
smiling.  “Should  I  say — thought — you  would  ask  if 
every  existence  devoid  of  thought  was  inert,  or  if  every 
existence  possessing  life,  possessed  thought.” 

“I should  so  have  asked.  Mind  or  thought  I  consider 
a  quality  of  that  matter  constituting  the  existence  we 
call  a  man,  which  quality  we  find  in  a  varying  degree 
in  other  existences  ;  many,  perhaps  all,  animals  possess¬ 
ing  it.  lyife  is  another  quality,  or  combination  of  quali¬ 
ties  of  matter,  inherent  in — we  know  not  how  many 
existences.  We  find  it  in  vegetables  ;  we  might  per¬ 
ceive  it  even  in  stones,  could  we  watch  their  formation, 
growth  and  decay.  We  may  call  that  active  principle, 
pervading  the  elements  of  all  things,  which  approaches 
and  separates  the  component  particles  of  the  ever- 
changing  and  yet  ever-during  world  life.  Until  you 
discover  some  substance  which  undergoes  no  change 
you  cannot  speak  of  inert  matter  ;  it  can  only  be  so,  at 
least,  relatively — that  is,  as  compared  with  other  sub¬ 
stances.” 

“The  classing  of  thought  and  life  among  the  qualities 
of  matter  is  new  to  me.” 

“What  is  in  a  substance  cannot  be  separate  from  it. 
And  is  not  all  matter  a  compound  of  qualities?  Hard¬ 
ness,  extension,  form,  color,  motion,  rest — take  away 
these,  and  where  is  matter?  To  conceive  of  mind  inde¬ 
pendent  of  matter,  is  as  if  we  should  conceive  of  color 


H  jfew  5)a^s  in  Htbens* 


139 


independent  of  a  substance  colored.  What  is  form,  if 
not  a  body  of  a  particular  shape?  What  is  thought,  if 
not  something  which  thinks?  Destroy  the  substance, 
and  you  destroy  its  properties  ;  and  so  equally — destroy 
the  properties,  and  you  destroy  the  substance.  To  sup¬ 
pose  the  possibility  of  retaining  the  one  without  the 
other  is  an  evident  absurdity.’’ 

“The  error  of  conceiving  a  quality  in  the  abstract 
often  offended  me  in  the  Lyceum,”  returned  the  youth, 
“but  I  never  considered  the  error  as  extending  to  mind 
and  life,  any  more  than  to  vice  and  virtue.” 

“You  stopped  short  with  many  others,”  said  Leon- 
tium.  “It  is  indeed  surprising  how  many  acute  minds 
will  apply  a  logical  train  of  reasoning  in  one  case  and 
invert  the  process  in  another  exactly  similar.” 

“To  return,  and  if  you  will,  to  conclude  our  discus¬ 
sion,”  said  Metrodorus,  “/  zvill  observe  that  no  real 
advances  can  be  made  in  the  philosophy  of  7nind^  without 
a  deep  scruthiy  iiito  the  operatiojis  of  Nature  or  znaterial 
existences.  Mind  being  only  a  quality  of  matter,  the 
study  we  call  the  philosophy  of  mind  is  necessarily  only 
a  branch  of  general  physics,  or  the  study  of  a  particular 
part  of  the  philosophy  of  matter.” 

“lam  indebted  to  your  patience,”  said  the  youth, 
“and  would  fain  intrude  farther  on  it.  I  will  confine 
myself  at  present,  however,  to  one  observation.  The 
general  view  of  things,  which  you  present  to  my  mind, 
the  simplicity  of  which  I  will  confess  to  be  yet  more 
fascinating  than  its  novelty,  is  evidently  unfavorable  to 
religion — and,  if  so,  unfavorable  to  virtue.” 

“An  opportunity  will  to-day  be  afforded  you,”  said 
Leontium,  “of  examining  this  important  question  in 
detail.  At  the  request  of  some  of  our  yputh,  the  Master 
will  himself  give  his  views  on  the  subject.” 


140 


H  jfew  Baps  in  Htbens* 


“lam  all  curiosity,”  said  Theon.  “Other  teachers 
have  commanded  my  respect,  inflamed  my  imagination, 
and,  I  believe,  often  controlled  my  reason.  The  son  of 
Neocles  inspires  me  with  love,  and  wins  me  to  confi¬ 
dence  by  encouraging  me  to  exercise  my  own  judgment 
in  scanning  his  arguments  and  examining  the  ground¬ 
work  of  his  own  opinions.  With  such  a  teacher,  and  in 
such  a  school,  I  feel  suspicion  to  be  wholly  misplaced  ; 
and  I  shall  now  start  in  the  road  of  inquiry,  anxious 
only  to  discover  truth,  and  willing  to  part  with  every 
erroneous  opinion  the  moment  it  shall  be  proved  erro¬ 
neous.  ’  ’ 


Note  by  the  Translator. — How  beautifully  have 
the  modern  discoveries  in  chemistry,  natural  philoso¬ 
phy,  and  the  more  accurate  analysis  of  the  human  mind 
— sciences  unknown  to  the  ancient  world — substantiated 
the  leading  principles  of  the  Epicurean  ethics  and 
physics — the  only  ancient  school  of  either  really  deserv¬ 
ing  the  name  ! 

To  what  have  all  our  ingenious  contrivances  and 
inventions  for  the  analysis  of  material  substances  led  us, 
but  to  the  atoms  of  Epicurus?  To  what  our  accurate 
observation  of  the  decomposition  of  substances,  and  the 
arresting  and  weighing  their  most  subtle  and  invisible 
elements,  but  to  the  eternal  and  unchangeable  nature  of 
those  atoms?  We  have,  in  the  course  of  our  scrutiny, 
superadded  to  the  wonderful  qualities  of  matter  with 
which  he  was  acquainted — those  which  we  call  attrac¬ 
tion,  repulsion,  electricity,  magnetism,  etc.  How  do 
these  discoveries,  multiply  and  magnify  the  living  pow¬ 
ers  inherent  in  the  simple  elements  of  all  existences, 
and  point  our  admiration  to  the  sagacity  of  that  intel- 


H  ffew  Baps  in  Htbens* 


141 

lect  which,  two  thousand  years  ago,  started  in  the  true 
road  of  inquiry,  while,  at  this  day,  thousands  of  teachers 
and  millions  of  scholars  are  stumbling  in  the  paths  of 
error  ! 

If  we  look  to  our  mental  philosophy,  to  what  has  our 
scrutiny  led  but  to  the  leading  principles  of  Epicurean 
ethics?  In  the  pleasure,  utility,  propriety  of  human 
action  (whatever  word  we  employ  the  meaning  is  the 
same),  in  the  consequences  of  human  actions,  that  is,  in 
their  tendency  to  promote  our  good  or  our  evil,  we  must 
ever  find  the  only  test  of  their  intrinsic  merit  or  demerit. 

It  might  seem  strange  that,  while  the  truth  of  the 
leading  principles  of  the  Epicurean  philosophy  have 
been  long  admitted  by  all  sound  reasoners,  the  abuse  of 
the  school  and  of  its  founder  is  continued  to  this  day  ; 
this  might  and  would  seem  strange  and  incomprehen¬ 
sible  did  we  not,  on  every  subject,  find  the  same  coward¬ 
ly  fear  of  facing,  openly  and  honestly,  the  prejudices  of 
men.  Teachers,  aware  of  the  ignorance  of  those  they 
teach,  develop  their  doctrines  in  language  intelligible 
only  to  the  few  ;  or,  where  they  hazard  a  more  distinct 
exposition  of  truth,  shelter  themselves  from  obloquy  by 
echoing  the  vulgar  censure  against  those  who  have 
taught  the  same  truth  with  more  explicitness  before 
them.  The  mass,  even  of  what  is  called  the  educated 
world,  know  nothing  of  the  principles  they  decry  or  of 
the  characters  they  abuse.  It  is  easy,  therefore,  by 
joining  in  the  abuse  against  the  one  to  encourage  a 
belief  that  we  cannot  be  advocating  the  other.  This 
desire  of  standing  fair  with  the  wise,  without  incurring 
the  enmity  of  the  ignorant,  may  suit  with  the  object  of 
those  who  acquire  knowledge  only  for  its  display  or  for 
the  gratification  of  mere  curiosity.  But  they,  whose 
nobler  aim  and  higher  gift  it  is  to  advance  the  human 


142 


H  ffew  Baps  in  Htbens* 


mind  in  the  discovery  of  truth,  must  stand  proof  equally 
to  censure  and  to  praise.  That  such  lips  and  such  pens 
should  employ  equivocation,  or  other  artifice,  to  turn 
aside  the  wrath  of  ignorance,  is  degrading  to  themselves 
and  mortifying  to  their  admirers.  The  late  amiable 
and  enlightened  teacher,  Mr.  Thomas  Brown,  of  Edin¬ 
burgh,  whose  masterly  exposition  of  old  and  new  truths 
and  exposure  of  modern  as  well  as  ancient  errors  has  so 
advanced  the  science  he  professed,  is  yet  chargeable 
with  this  weakness.  After  inculcating  the  leading 
principles  of  the  Epicurean  philosophy,  and  building 
upon  those  principles  the  whole  of  this  beautiful  sys¬ 
tem,  he  condescends  to  soothe  the  prejudices  which  all 
his  arguments  have  tended  to  uproot  by  passing  a 
sweeping  censure  on  the  school  whose  doctrines  he  has 
borrowed  and  taught.  We  might  say — how  unworthy 
of  such  a  mind  !  But  we  will  rather  say,  how  is  it  to  be 
lamented  that  such  a  mind  bears  not  within  itself  the 
conviction  that  all  truths  are  important  to  all  men  ;  and 
that  to  employ  deception  with  the  ignorant,  is  to  defeat 
our  own  purposes — which  is  surely  not  to  open  the  eyes 
of  those  who  already  see,  but  to  enlighten  the  blind  ! 


CHAPTER  XVL 


A  MORE  than  usual  crowd  attended  the  instructions 
of  the  sage.  The  gay  and  the  curious,  the  learned 
and  the  idle,  of  all  ages,  and  of  either  sex,  from  the 
restless  population  of  the  city  ;  many  citizens  of  note, 
collected  from  various  parts  of  Attica  ;  and  no  inconsid¬ 
erable  portion  of  strangers  from  foreign  states  and 
countries. 

They  were  assembled  on  the  lawn,  surrounding  the 
Temple  already  frequently  mentioned.  The  contract¬ 
ing  waters  of  Ilissus  flowed  nearly  in  their  accustomed 
bed  ;  and  earth  and  air,  refreshed  by  the  storm  of  the 
preceding  night,  resisted  the  rays  of  the  uncurtained 
sun,  now  climbing  high  in  the  heavens.  A  crowd  of 
recollections  rushed  on  the  young  mind  of  Theon,  as  he 
entered  the  beautiful  enclosure,  and  gazed  on  the  stream 
which  formed  one  of  its  boundaries.  His  thoughts 
again  played  truant  to  philosophy,  and  his  rapid  glance 
sought  another  and  a  fairer  form  than  any  it  found 
there,  when  the  approach  of  Epicurus  divided  the 
throng,  and  hushed  the  loud  murmur  of  tongues  into 
silence.  The  sage  passed  on,  and  it  was  not  till  he 
ascended  the  marble  steps,  and  turned  to  address  the 
assembly,  that  Theon  perceived  he  had  been  followed 
by  the  beautiful  being  who  ruled  his  fancy.  The  hues 
of  Hebe  now  dyed  her  lips  and  her  cheeks  ;  but  the 
laughing  smiles  of  the  preceding  evening  were  changed 
for  the  composure  of  respectful  attention.  Her  eye 


143 


144 


H  jfew  Daps  in  Htbens* 


caught  that  of  Theon.  She  gave  a  blush  and  a  smile  of 
recognition.  Then,  seating  herself  at  the  base  of  a 
column  to  the  right  of  her  father,  her  face  resumed  its 
composure  and  her  full,  dark  eyes  fastened  on  the  coun- 
tenance  of  the  sage  in  a  gaze  of  mingled  admiration  and 
filial  love  : — 

“  Fellow  citizens  and  fellow  men  !  We  propose,  this 
day,  to  examine  a  question  of  vital  importance  to  hu¬ 
man  kind — no  less  a  one  than  the  relations  we  bear  to 
all  the  existences  that  surround  us ;  the  position  we 
hold  on  this  beautiful  material  world  ;  the  origin,  the 
object  and  the  end  of  our  being  ;  the  source  from  which 
we  proceed  and  the  goal  to  which  we  tend.  This  ques¬ 
tion  embraces  many.  It  embraces  all  most  interesting 
to  our  curiosity  and  influential  over  our  happiness.  Its 
correct  or  incorrect  solution  must  ever  regulate,  as  it 
now  regulates,  our  rule  of  conduct,  our  conceptions  of 
right  and  wrong  ;  must  start  us  in  the  road  of  true  or 
false  inquiry,  and  either  open  our  minds  to  such  a 
knowledge  of  the  wonders  working  in  and  around  us  as 
our  senses  and  faculties  can  attain,  or  close  them  forever 
with  the  iron  bands  of  superstition,  leaving  us  a  prey  to 
fear,  the  slaves  of  our  ungoverned  imaginations,  wonder¬ 
ing  and  trembling  at  every  occurrence  in  Nature,  and 
making  our  own  existence  and  destinv  sources  of  dread 
and  of  mystery. 

“  Bre  we  come  to  this  important  inquiry,  it  behooves 
iis  to  see  that  we  come  with  willing  minds  ;  that  we  say 
not,  ‘so  far  we  will  go  and  no  farther;  we  will  make 
one  step,  but  not  two  ;  we  will  examine,  but  only  so 
long  as  the  result  of  our  examination  shall  confirm  our 
preconceived  opinions.’  In  our  search  after  truth,  we 
must  equally  discard  presumption  and  fear.  We  must 
come  with  our  eyes  and  our  ears,  our  hearts  and  our 


H  iFew  Daps  in  Htbens* 


145 


understandings  open ;  anxious,  not  to  find  ourselves 
right,  but  to  discover  what  is  right ;  asserting  nothing 
which  we  cannot  prove  ;  believing  nothing  which  we 
have  not  examined  ;  and  examining  all  things  fearlessly, 
dispassionately,  perseveringly. 

“In  our  preceding  discourses,  and  for  such  as  have 
not  attended  these,  in  our  writings,  we  have  tried  to 
explain  the  real  object  of  philosophical  inquiry  ;  we 
have  directed  you  to  the  investigation  of  Nature,  to  all 
that  you  see  of  existences  and  occurrences  around  you ; 
and  we  have  shown  that,  in  these  existences  and  occur¬ 
rences,  all  that  can  be  known,  and  all  that  there  is  to  be 
known,  lies  hid.  We  have  exhorted  you  to  use  your 
eyes  and  your  judgments,  never  your  imaginations  ;  to 
abstain  from  theory,  and  rest  with  facts  ;  and  to  under¬ 
stand  that  in  the  accumulation  of  facts,  as  regards  the 
nature  and  properties  of  substances,  the  order  of  occur¬ 
rences,  and  the  consequences  of  actions,  lies  the  whole 
science  of  philosophy,  physical  and  moral. 

“We  have  seen,  in  the  course  of  our  investigation, 
that  in  matter  itself  exist  all  causes  and  effects  ;  that 
the  eternal  particles,  composing  all  substances,  form  the 
first  and  last  links  in  the  chain  of  occurrences,  or  of 
cause  and  effect,  at  which  we  can  arrive  ;  that  the  quali¬ 
ties,  inherent  in  these  particles  produce,  or  are  followed, 
by  certain  effects  ;  that  the  changes,  in  position,  of  these 
particles,  produce  or  are  followed  by  certain  other  quali¬ 
ties  and  effects  ;  that  the  sun  appears,  and  that  light  fol¬ 
lows  his  appearance  ;  that  we  throw  a  pearl  into  vin¬ 
egar,  and  that  the  pearl  vanishes  from  our  eyes,  to 
assume  the  form  or  forms  more  subtile,  but  not  less  real 
substances  ;  that  the  component  particles  of  a  human 
being  fall  asunder,  and  that,  instead  of  a  man,  we  find 
a  variety  of  other  substances  or  existences,  presenting 


146 


H  ffew  in  Htbens, 


new  appearances  and  new  properties  or  powers  ;  that  a 
burning  coal  touches  our  hand ;  that  the  sensation  of 
pain  follows  the  contact ;  that  the  desire  to  end  this 
sensation  is  the  next  effect  in  succession,  and  that  the 
muscular  motion  of  withdrawing  the  hand,  following 
the  desire  is  another.  That  in  all  this  succession  of 
existences  and  events  there  is  nothing  but  what  we  see, 
or  what  we  could  see,  if  we  had  better  eyes  ;  that  there 
is  no  mystery  in  Nature,  but  that  involved  in  the  very 
existence  of  all  things  ;  and  that  things  being  as  they 
are,  is  no  more  wonderful  than  it  would  be  if  they  were 
different.  That  an  analogous  course  of  events,  or  chain 
of  causes  and  effects,  takes  place  in  morals  as  in  physics 
— that  is  to  say,  in  examining  those  qualities  of  the 
matter  composing  our  own  bodies,  which  we  call  mind, 
we  can  only  trace  a  train  of  occurrences,  in  like  manner 
as  we  do  in  the  external  world  ;  that  our  sensations, 
thoughts  and  emotions  are  simply  effects  following 
causes,  a  series  of  consecutive  phenomena,  mutually 
producing  and  produced. 

“When  we  have  taken  this  view  of  things,  observe 
how  all  abstruse  questions  disappear  ;  how  all  science  is 
simplified  ;  all  knowledge  rendered  easy  and  familiar  to 
the  mind  !  Once  started  in  this  only  true  road  of  in¬ 
quiry,  every  step  we  make  is  one  in  advance.  To  what¬ 
ever  science  we  apply,  that  is,  to  whatever  part  of 
matter,  or  to  whichever  of  its  qualities  we  direct  our 
attention,  we  shall,  in  all  probability,  make  important, 
because  true,  discoveries.  Is  it  the  philosophy  of  Nature 
in  general,  or  any  one  of  those  subdivisions  of  it  which 
we  call  the  philosophy  of  Mind,  Ethics,  Medicine,  As¬ 
tronomy,  Geometry,  etc.? — the  moment  we  occupy  our¬ 
selves  in  observing  and  arranging  in  order  the  facts 
which  are  discovered  in  the  course  of  observation,  we 


H  ffew  H)a^s  in  Htbens^ 


147 


then  acquire  positive  knowledge,  and  may  safely  under¬ 
take  to  develop  it  to  others.  The  ascertaining  the 
nature  of  existences,  the  order  of  occurrences,  and  the 
consequences  of  human  actions,  constituting,  therefore, 
the  whole  of  knowledge,  what  is  there  to  prevent  each 
and  all  of  us  from  extending  our  discoveries  to  the  full 
limits  prescribed  by  the  nature  of  our  faculties  and 
duration  of  our  existence?  What  nobler  employment 
can  we  invent?  What  pleasure  so  pure,  so  little  liable 
to  disappointment?  What  is  there  to  hold  us  back? 
What  is  there  not  to  spur  us  forward  ?  Does  our  igno¬ 
rance  start  from  the  very  simplicity  of  knowledge  ?  Do 
we  fear  to  open  our  eyes  lest  we  should  see  the  light? 
Does  the  very  truth  we  seek  alarm  us  in  its  attainment? 

“  How  is  it  that,  placed  in  this  world  as  on  a  theatre 
of  observation,  surrounded  by  wonders,  and  endowed 
with  faculties  wherewith  to  scan  these  wonders,  we 
know  so  little  of  what  is,  and  imagine  so  much  of  what 
is  not  ?  Other  animals,  to  whom  man  accounts  himself 
superior,  exercise  the  faculties  they  possess,  trust  their 
testimony,  follow  the  impulses  of  their  nature  and  enjoy 
the  happiness  of  which  they  are  capable.  Man  alone^ 
the  most  gifted  of  all  known  existences,  doubts  the 
evidence  of  his  superior  senses,  perverts  the  nature  and 
uses  of  his  multiplied  faculties,  controls  his  most  inno-  ' 
cent  as  well  as  his  noblest  impulses,  and  turns  to  poison 
all  the  sources  of  his  happiness.  To  what  are  we  to 
trace  this  fatal  error,  this  cruel  self-martyrdom,  this 
perversion  of  things  from  their  natural  bent?  In  the 
over-development  of  one  faculty,  aud  neglect  of  another, 
we  must  seek  the  cause.  In  the  imagination,  that  source 
of  our  most  beautiful  pleasures,  when  under  the  control 
of  judgment,  we  find  the  source  of  our  worst  afflictions. 

“  From  an  early  age  I  have  made  the  nature  and  con- 


148 


H  ifew  in  Htbens* 


dition  of  man  my  study.  I  have  found  him  in  many 
countries  of  the  earth,  under  the  influence  of  all  vari¬ 
eties  of  climate  and  circumstance  ;  I  have  found  him  the 
savage  lord  of  the  forest,  clothed  in  the  rough  skins  of 
animals  less  rude  than  himself,  sheltered  in  the  crevices 
of  the  mountains  and  caves  of  the  earth  from  the  blasts 
of  winter  and  heats  of  the  summer  sun  ;  I  have  found 
him  the  slave  of  masters  debased  as  himself,  crouching 
to  the  foot  that  spurns  him,  and  showing  no  signs  of 
miscalled  civilization  but  its  sloth  and  its  sensualities  ; 
I  have  found  him  the  lord  over  millions,  clothed  in 
purple,  and  treading  courts  of  marble  ;  the  cruel  de¬ 
stroyer  of  his  species,  marching  through  blood  and 
rapine  to  thrones  of  extended  dominion  ;  the  iron- 
hearted  tyrant,  feasting  on  the  agonies  of  his  victims, 
and  wringing  his  treasure  from  the  hard-earned  mite  of 
industry  ;  I  have  found  him  the  harmless  but  ignorant 
tiller  of  the  soil,  eating  the  simple  fruits  of  his  labor, 
sinking  to  rest  only  to  rise  again  to  toil  ;  toiling  to  live, 
hnd  living  only  to  die  ;  I  have  found  him  the  polished 
courtier,  the  accomplished  scholar,  the  gifted  artist,  the 
creating  genius  ;  the  fool  and  the  knave  ;  rich  and  a 
beggar,  spurning  and  spurned. 

“Under  all  these  forms  and  varieties  of  the  external 
and  internal  man,  still,  with  hardly  an  exception,  I 
have  found  him  unhappy.  With  more  capacity  for 
enjoyment  than  any  other  creature,  I  have  seen  him 
surpassing  the  rest  of  existences  only  in  suffering  and 
crime.  Why  is  this,  and  from  whence?  What  master 
error,  for  some  there  must  be,  leads  to  results  so  fatal? 
— so  opposed  to  the  apparent  nature  and  promise  of 
things?  Uong  have  I  sought  this  error,  this  mainspring 
of  human  folly  and  human  crime.  I  have  traced, 
through  all  their  lengthened  train  of  consequents  and 


H  ffew  Da^s  in  Htbens. 


149 


causes,  human  practice  and  human  theory  ;  I  have 
threaded  the  labyrinth  to  its  dark  beginning  ;  I  have 
found  the  first  link  in  the  chain  of  evil  ;  I  have  found 
it,  in  all  countries,  among  all  tribes  and  tongues  and 
nations  ;  I  have  found  it, — fellow-men,  I  have  found  it 
in — REI.IGION  !” 

A  low  murmur  here  rose  from  one  part  of  the  assem¬ 
bly.  A  deep  and  breathless  silence  succeeded.  The 
sage  turned  his  gaze  slowly  around,  and  with  a  counte¬ 
nance  pure  and  serene  as  the  skies  which  shone  above 
him,  proceeded  ; — 

“We  have  named  the  leading  error  of  the  human 
mind — the  bane  of  human  happiness,  the  perverter  of 
human  virtue  !  It  is  Religion,  that  dark  coinage  of 
trembling  ignorance  !  It  is  Religion,  that  poisoner  of 
human  felicity  !  It  is  Religion,  that  blind  guide  of 
human  reason  !  It  is  Religion,  that  dethroner  of  human 
virtue  !  which  lies  at  the  root  of  all  the  evil  and  all  the 
misery  that  pervade  the  world  ! 

“Not  hastily  formed,  still  less  hastily  expressed,  has 
been  the  opinion  you  hear  this  day.  A  long  train  of 
reflection  led  to  the  discarding  of  religion  as  an  error,  a 
life  of  observation  to  the  denouncing  it  as  an  evil.  In 
considering  it  as  devoid  of  truth,  I  am  but  one  of  many. 
Few  have  looked  deeply  and  steadily  into  the  nature  of 
things,  and  not  called  in  question  belief  in  existences 
unseen,  and  causes  unknown.  But  while  smiling  at 
the  credulity  of  their  fellow-beings,  philosophers  have 
thought  reason  good  only  for  themselves.  They  have 
argued  that  religion,  however  a  childish  a  chimera  in 
itself,  was  useful  in  its  tendencies  ;  that,  if  it  rested 
upon  nothing,  it  supported  all  things  ;  that  it  was  the 
support  of  virtue,  and  the  source  of  happiness.  How¬ 
ever  opposed  to  every  rule  in  philosophy,  physical  and 


H  ffew  H)a^s  in  Htbens* 


150 

moral  ;  however  apparently  in  contradiction  to  reason 
and  common  sense,  that  a  thing  nntrue  could  be  useful  ; 
that  a  belief  in  facts  disproved  or  unproved  could  afford 
a  sustaining  prop  to  a  just  rule  of  practice,  the  assertion 
came  supported  by  so  universal  a  testimony  of  mankind, 
and  by  individual  names  of  such  authority  in  practical 
wisdom  and  virtue,  that  I  hesitated  to  call  it  mistaken. 
And  as  human  happiness  appeared  to  me  the  great 
desideratum,  and  its  promotion  the  only  object  consist¬ 
ent  with  the  views  of  a  teacher  of  men,  I  forbore  from 
all  expression  of  opinion  until  I  had  fully  substantiated, 
to  my  own  conviction,  both  its  truth  and  its  tendency. 
The  truth  of  my  opinion  is  substantiated,  as  we  have 
seen,  by  an  examination  into  the  nature  of  things  ;  that 
is,  into  the  properties  of  matter,  which  are  alone  suffici¬ 
ent  to  produce  all  the  chances  and  changes  that  we 
behold.  Its  tendency  is  discovered  by  an  examination 
into  the  moral  condition  of  man. 

“The  belief  in  supernatural  existences,  and  the  ex¬ 
pectation  of  a  future  life,  are  said  to  be  sources  of  happi¬ 
ness,  and  stimuli  to  virtue.  How,  and  in  what  way? 
Is  it  proved  by  experience?  Took  abroad  over  the 
earth  ;  everywhere  the  song  of  praise — the  prayer  of 
supplication — the  smoke  of  incense,  the  blow  of  sacri¬ 
fice,  arise  from  forest  and  lawn,  from  cottage,  palace 
and  temple  to  the  gods  of  human  idolatry.  Religion  is 
spread  over  the  earth.  If  she  be  the  parent  of  virtue 
and  happiness,  they,  too,  should  cover  the  earth.  Do 
they  so?  Read  the  annals  of  human  tradition  !  Go 
forth  and  observe  the  actions  of  men  !  Who  shall  speak 
of  virtue,  who  of  happiness,  that  hath  eyes  to  see  and 
ears  to  hear  and  hearts  to  feel?  No!  Experience  is 
against  the  assertion.  The  world  is  full  of  religion,  and 
full  of  misery  and  crime. 


H  ffew  in  Htbens* 


151 

“Can  the  assertion  be  sustained  by  argument,  by  any 
train  of  reasoning  whatsoever?  Imagine  a  Deity  under 
any  fashion  of  existence.  How  are  our  dreams  concern¬ 
ing  hirn  in  an  imaginary  heaven  to  affect  our  happiness 
or  our  conduct  on  a  tangible  earth?  Affect  it,  indeed, 
they  may  for  evil,  but  how  for  good?  The  idea  of  an 
unseen  Being  ever  at  work  around  and  about  us,  may 
afflict  the  human  intellect  with  idle  terrors,  but  can 
never  guide  the  human  practice  to  what  is  rational  and 
consistent  with  our  nature.  Grant  that,  by  any  possi¬ 
bility  we  could  ascertain  the  existence  of  one  god,  or  of 
a  million  of  gods — we  see  them  not,  we  hear  them  not, 
we  feel  them  not.  Unless  they  were  submitted  to  our 
observation— were  fashioned  like  unto  us,  had  similar 
desires,  similar  faculties,  a  similar  organization — how 
could  their  mode  of  existence  afford  a  guide  for  ours? 
As  well  should  the  butterfly  take  pattern  from  the  lion, 
or  the  lion  from  the  eagle,  as  man  from  a  god.  To  say 
nothing  of  the  inconsistency  of  the  attributes  with  which 
all  gods  are  decked,  it  is  enough  that  none  of  them  are 
ours.  We  are  men  ;  they  are  gods.  They  inhabit  other 
worlds  ;  we  inhabit  the  earth.  Let  them  enjoy  their 
felicity,  and  let  us,  my  friends,  seek  ours. 

“But  it  is  not  that  religion  is  merely  useless,  it  is 
mischievous.  It  is  mischievous  by  its  idle  terrors  ;  it  is 
mischievous  by  its  false  morality  ;  it  is  mischievous  by 
its  hypocrisy  ;  by  its  fanaticism  ;  by  its  dogmatism  ;  by 
its  terrible  threats  ;  by  its  hopes ;  by  its  promises. 
Consider  it  under  its  mildest  and  most  amiable  forms,  it 
is  still  mischievous,  as  inspiring  false  motives  of  action, 
as  holding  the  human  mind  in  bondage,  and  diverting 
the  attention  from  things  useful  to  things  useless.  The 
essence  of  religion  is  fear,  as  its  source  is  ignorance. 

“  In  a  certain  stage  of  human  knowledge,  the  human 


152 


H  dfew  Daps  in  Htbens. 


mind  must  of  necessity,  in  its  ignorance  of  tlie  proper¬ 
ties  of  matter,  and  its  dark  insight  into  the  chains  of 
phenomena  arising  out  of  those  properties — must  of 
necessity  reason  falsely  on  every  occurrence  and  exist¬ 
ence  in  Nature  ;  it  must,  of  necessity,  in  the  absence  of 
fact,  give  the  rein  to  fancy,  see  a  miracle  in  every 
uncommon  event,  and  imagine  unseen  agents  as  produc¬ 
ing  all  that  it  beholds.  In  proportion  as  the  range  of 
our  observation  is  enlarged,  and  that  we  learned  to 
connect  and  arrange  the  phenomena  of  Nature,  we 
curtail  our  list  of  miracles  and  the  number  of  our  super¬ 
natural  agents.  An  eclipse  is  alarming  to  the  vulgar, 
as  denoting  the  wrath  of  offended  Deities  ;  to  the  man 
of  science  it  is  a  simple  occurrence,  as  easily  traced  to 
its  cause  as  any  the  most  familiar  to  our  observation. 
The  knowledge  of  one  generation  is  the  ignorance  of 
the  next.  Our  superstitions  decrease  as  our  attainments 
multiply  ;  and  the  fervor  of  our  religion  declines  as  we 
draw  nearer  to  the  conclusion  which  destroys  it  entirely. 
That  conclusion,  based  upon  accumulated  facts,  is,  as 
we  have  seen,  that  matter  alone  is  at  once  the  thing 
acting,  and  the  thing  acted  upon^ — eternal  in  duration, 
infinitely  various  and  varying  in  appearance  ;  never  di¬ 
minishing  in  quantity  and  always  changing  in  form. 
Without  some  knowledge  of  what  is  styled  natural 
philosophy,  or  physics,  no  individual  can  attain  this 
conclusion.  And  in  a  certain  stage  of  that  knowledge, 
more  or  less  advanced  according  to  the  acuteness  of  the 
intellect,  it  will  be  impossible  for  any  individual,  not 
mentally  obtuse,  to  shun  that  conclusion.  This  truth 
is  one  of  infinite  importance.  The  moment  we  consider 
the  hostility  directed  against  what  is  called  Atheism,  as 
the  natural  result  of  deficient  information,  the  mind 
must  be  diseased  which  could  resent  that  hostility. 


H  ffew  Daps  in  Htbens. 


153 


And  perhaps  a  simple  statement  of  the  truth  would  best 
lead  to  an  examination  of  the  subject,  and  to  the  con¬ 
version  of  mankind. 

“Imagine  this  conversion,  my  friends  !  Imagine  the 
creature  man  in  the  full  exercise  of  all  his  faculties  ;  not 
shrinking  from  knowledge,  but  eager  in  its  pursuit ;  not 
bending  the  knee  of  adulation  to  visionary  beings  armed 
by  fear  for  his  destruction,  but  standing  erect  in  calm 
contemplation  of  the  beautiful  face  of  Nature  ;  discard¬ 
ing  prejudice,  and  admitting  truth  without  fear  of  conse¬ 
quences  ;  acknowledging  no  judge  but  reason,  no  censor 
but  that  in  his  own  breast !  Thus  considered,  he  is 
transformed  into  the  god  of  his  present  idolatry,  or 
rather  into  a  far  nobler  being,  possessing  all  the  attri¬ 
butes  consistent  with  virtue  and  reason,  and  none  opposed 
to  either.  How  great  a  contrast  with  his  actual  state  ! 
His  best  faculties  dormant ;  his  judgment  unawak¬ 
ened  within  him  ;  his  very  senses  misemployed  ;  all  his 
energies  misdirected — trembling  before  the  coinage  of 
his  own  idle  fancy  ;  seeing  over  all  creation  a  hand  of 
tyranny  extended  ;  and  instead  of  following  virtue,  wor¬ 
shipping  power  !  Monstrous  creation  of  ignorance ! 
monstrous  degradation  of  the  noblest  of  known  exist¬ 
ences!  Man,  boasting  of  superior  reasoning,  of  moral 
discrimination,  imagines  a  Being  at  once  unjust,  cruel 
and  inconsistent ;  then,  kissing  the  dust,  calls  himself 
its  slave  I  ‘This  world  A,’  says  the  Theist,  ‘therefore 
it  was  made.’  By  whom?  ‘  By  a  being  more  powerful 
than  I.’ 

“Grant  this  infantine  reasoning,  what  follows  as  the 
conclusion?  ‘That  we  must  fear  him,’  said  the  Theist. 
And  why  ?  Is  his  power  directed  against  our  happiness? 
Does  your  God  amuse  himself  by  awakening  the  terrors 
of  more  helpless  beings?  Fear  him  then  indeed  we 


154 


H  ffew  Wa^s  in  Htbens* 


may  ;  and,  let  our  conduct  be  what  it  will,  fear  him  we 
must.  •  ‘He  is  good  as  well  as  powerful,’  says  the 
Theist,  ‘therefore  the  object  of  love.’  How  do  we 
ascertain  his  goodness?  I  see  indeed  a  beautiful  and 
curious  world  ;  but  I  see  it  full  of  moral  evils,  and  pre¬ 
senting  many  physical  imperfections.  Is  he  all-power¬ 
ful  ?  perfect  good  or  perfect  evil  might  exist.  Is  he  all- 
powerful  mid  all-good  ?  perfect  good  must  exist.  Of  the 
sentient  beings  comprised  in  the  infinity  of  matter,  I 
know  but  those  which  I  behold.  I  set  no  limits  to  the 
number  of  those  which  I  behold  not ;  no  bounds  to  their 
power.  One  or  many  may  have  given  directions  to  the 
elementary  atoms,  and  may  have  fashioned  this  earth  as 
the  potter  fashions  its  clay.  Beings  possessing  such 
power  may  exist,  and  may  have  exercised  it.  All- 
powerful  still  they  are  not,  or  being  so,  they  are  wicked  ; 
evil  exists.  I  know  not  what  7nay  be,  but  this  my 
moral  sense  tells  me  cannot  be,  a  fashioner  of  the 
world  I  inhabit,  in  his  nature  all-good  and  all-powerful. 
I  see  yet  another  impossibility  :  a  fashioner  of  this 
world  in  his  nature  all-good  and  fore-knowing.  Grant¬ 
ing  the  possibility  of  the  attributes,  their  united  exist¬ 
ence  were  an  impossible  supposition  in  the  architect  of 
our  earth. 

“Bet  us  accord  his  goodness,  the  most  pleasing  and 
valuable  attribute.  Your  God  is  then  the  object  of  our 
love  and  our  pity.  Of  our  love,  because  being  benevo¬ 
lent  in  his  own  nature,  he  must  have  intended  to  pro¬ 
duce  happiness  in  forming  ours  ;  of  our  pity,  because  we 
see  that  he  has  failed  in  his  intention.  I  cannot  con¬ 
ceive  a  condition  more  unfortunate  than  that  of  a  Deity 
contemplating  this  world  of  his  creation.  Is  he  the 
author  of  some,  say  of  much  happiness?  Of  what 
untold  misery  is  he  equally  the  author?  I  cannot  con- 


H  dfew  Dai^s  in  Htbens* 


155 


ceive  a  being  more  desperately,  more  hopelessly  wretch¬ 
ed  than  that  we  have  now  pictured.  The  worst  of 
human  miseries  shrink  into  comparative  insignificance 
before  those  of  their  author.  How  must  every  sigh 
drawn  from  the  bosom  of  man  rend  the  heart  of  his 
God  !  How  must  every  violence  committed  on  earth 
convulse  the  peace  of  Heaven  !  Unable  to  alter  what 
he  had  fashioned,  how  must  he  equally  curse  his  power 
and  his  impotence  !  And,  in  bewailing  our  existence, 
how  must  he  burn  to  annihilate  his  own  ! 

“  We  will  now  suppose  his  power  without  limit  ;  and 
his  knowledge  extending  to  the  future,  as  to  the  past. 
How  monstrous  the  conception  !  What  demon,  drawn 
from  the  fevered  brain  of  insanity,  ever  surpassed  this 
Deity  in  malignity  !  Able  to  make  perfection,  he  hath 
sown  through  all  Nature  the  seed  of  evil.  The  lion 
pursues  the  lamb  ;  the  vulture,  in  his  rage,  tears 
the  dove  from  her  nest.  Man,  the  universal  enemy, 
triumphs  even  in  the  sufferings  of  his  fellow-beings  ;  in 
their  pain  he  finds  his  own  joy;  in  their  loss,  his  gain  ; 
in  the  frenzy  of  his  violence,  working  out  his  own 
destruction  ;  in  the  folly  of  his  ignorance  cursing  his 
own  race,  and  blessing  its  cruel  author  !  Your  Deity  is 
the  author  of  evil,  and  you  call  him  good  !  the  inventor 
of  misery,  and  you  call  him  happy  !  What  virtuous 
mind  shall  yield  homage  to  such  a  Being?  Who  shall 
say  that  homage,  if  rendered,  degrades  not  the  worship¬ 
per?  Or  who  shall  say  that  homage,  when  rendered, 
shall  pacify  the  idol?  Will  abjectness  in  the  slave 
ensure  mercy  in  the  tyrant?  Or,  if  it  should,  my 
friends,  which  of  us  would  be  the  abject  slave?  Are 
men  found  bold  to  resist  earthly  oppression,  and  shall 
they  bow  before  injustice,  because  she  speaks  from 
Heaven  ?  Does  the  name  of  Harmodius  inspire  our 


H  jfew  Baps  in  Htbens* 


156 

songs  ?  Do  crowns  of  laurel  bind  the  temples  of  Aris- 
togiton?  Let  our  courage  rise  higher  than  theirs,  my 
friends  ;  and,  if  worthy  of  ambition,  our  fame  !  De¬ 
throne,  not  the  tyrant  of  Athens,  but  the  tyrant  of  the 
earth  ! — not  the  oppressor  of  Athenians,  but  the  op¬ 
pressor  of  mankind  !  Stand  forth  !  Stand  erect !  Say 
to  this  God,  ‘  if  you  made  us  in  malice,  we  will  not  wor¬ 
ship  you  in  fear.  We  wdll  judge  of  you  by  your  works, 
and  judge  your  works  with  our  reason.  If  evil  pervade 
them,  you  are  chargeable  with  it — as  their  author.  We 
care  not  to  conciliate  your  injustice,  any  more  than  to 
strive  with  your  power.  We  judge  of  the  future  from 
the  past.  And  as  you  have  disposed  of  us  in  this  world, 
so,  if  it  please  you  to  continue  our  being,  must  you 
dispose  of  us  in  another.  It  would  be  idle  to  strive  with 
Omnipotence,  or  to  provide  against  the  decrees  of  Omni¬ 
science.  We  will  not  torment  ourselves  by  imagining 
your  intentions ;  nor  debase  ourselves  by  any  ex¬ 
postulations.  Should  you  punish,  in  us,  the  evil  you 
have  made,  you  will  punish  it  as  unjustly,  as  you  made 
it  maliciously.  Should  you  reward  in  us  the  good,  you 
will  reward  it  absurdly,  as  it  was  equally  your  work,  and 
not  ours.  ’ 

“Let  us  now  concede,  in  argument,  the  union  of  all 
the  enumerated  attributes.  Let  us  accord  the  existence 
of  a  Being  perfect  in  goodness,  wisdom  and  power,  who 
shall  have  made  all  things  by  his  volition,  and  decreed 
all  occurrences  in  his  wisdom.  Such  a  Being  must 
command  our  admiration  and  approval  ;  he  can  com¬ 
mand  no  more.  As  he  is  good  and  wise,  he  is  superior 
to  all  praise  ;  as  he  is  great  and  happy,  he  is  independ¬ 
ent  of  all  praise.  As  he  is  the  author  of  our  happiness, 
he  has  insured  our  love  ;  but  as  he  is  our  Creator,  he 
may  command  from  us  no  duties.  Supposing  a  God,  all 


H  3Few  H)a^6  in  Htbens* 


157 


duties  rest  with  him.  If  he  has  made  us,  he  is  bound  to 
make  us  happy  ;  and  failing  in  the  duty,  he  must  be  an 
object  of  just  abhorrence  to  all  his  sentient  creation. 
Kindness  received  miist  necessarily  inspire  affection. 
This  kindness,  in  a  Divine  Creator,  as  in  an  earthly 
parent,  is  a  solemn  duty — a  sacred  obligation — the  non¬ 
performance  of  which  were  the  most  atrocious  of  crimes. 
When  performed,  love  from  the  creature,  as  from  the 
child,  is  a  necessary  consequence  and  an  all-sufficient 
reward. 

“Allowing  then  to  the  Theist  his  God,  we  stand  to 
him  in  no  relation  that  can  inspire  fear  or  involve  duty. 
He  can  give  us  no  happiness  that  he  was  not  bound  to 
bestow ;  he  can  cherish  us  with  no  tenderness  that  he 
was  not  bound  to  yield.  It  is  for  him  to  gratify  all  our 
desires,  or,  if  they  be  erroneous,  to  correct  them.  It  is 
for  us  to  demand  every  good  in  his  power  to  grant,  or  in 
ours  to  enjoy.  Det,  then,  the  Theologist  banish  fear 
and  duty  from  his  creed.  It  is  love — love  alone  that 
can  be  claimed  by  Gods,  or  yielded  by  men. 

“Have  we  said  enough?  Surely  the  absurdity  of  all 
the  doctrines  of  religion,  and  the  iniquity  of  many,  are 
sufficiently  evident.  To  fear  a  Being  on  account  of  his 
power,  is  very  degrading  ;  to  fear  him,  if  he  be  good, 
ridiculous.  Prove  to  us  his  existence,  and  prove  to  us 
his  perfections  ;  prove  us  his  parental  care  ;  love  springs 
up  at  once  in  our  bosoms,  and  repays  his  bounty.  If  he 
care  not  to  show  us  his  existence,  he  desires  not  the 
payment  of  our  love,  and  finds  in  the  contemplation  of 
his  own  works  their  reward. 

“‘But,’  says  the  Theist,  ‘his  existence  is  evident, 
and  not  to  acknowledge  it,  a  crime.’  It  is  not  so  to  me, 
my  friends.  I  see  no  sufficient  evidence  of  his  existence, 
and  to  reason  of  its  possibility  I  hold  to  be  an  idle 


H  ffew  in  Htbens^ 


158 

speculation.  To  doubt  that  which  is  evident,  is  not  in 
our  power.  To  believe  that  which  is  not  evident,  is 
equally  impossible  to  us.  Theist !  thou  makest  of  thy 
God  a  being  more  weak,  more  silly,  than  thyself.  He 
punisheth  as  a  crime  the  doubt  of  his  existence  !  Why, 
then,  let  him  declare  his  existence,  and  we  doubt  no 
more  !  Should  the  wandering  tribes  of  Scythia  doubt 
the  existence  of  Epicurus,  should  Epicurus  be  angry? 
What  vanity? — what  absurdity? — what  silliness,  oh, 
Theists  !  do  ye  not  suppose  in  your  God?  Eet  him 
exist,  this  God,  in  all  the  perfection  of  a  poet’s  imagery; 
I  lift  to  him  a  forehead  assured  and  serene  :  ‘  I  see  thee, 
oh,  God  !  in  thy  power,  and  admire  thee  ;  I  see  thee,  in 
thy  goodness,  and  approve  thee.  Such  homage  only  is 
worthy  of  thee  to  receive,  or  of  me  to  render.’  And 
what  does  he  reply?  ‘Thou  art  right,  creature  of  my 
fashioning.  Thou  canst  not  add  to,  nor  take  away 
from,  the  sum  of  my  felicity.  I  made  thee  to  enjoy  thy 
own,  not  to  wonder  at  mine.  I  have  placed  thee  amid 
objects  of  desire.  I  have  given  thee  means  of  enjoy¬ 
ment.  Enjoy,  then  !  Be  happy  !  It  was  for  that  I  made 
thee  !” 

“Hearken,  then,  my  children  !  hearken  to  your  teach¬ 
er!  Eet  it  be  a  God  or  a  Philosopher  who  speaks,  the 
injunction  is  the  same  : — Enjoy ^  and  be  happy!  Is  life 
short?  It  is  an  evil.  But  render  life  happy  ;  its  short¬ 
ness  is  the  07tly  evil.  I  call  to  you,  as,  if  he  exist,  God 
must  call  to  you  from  Heaven  : — Enjoy ^  and  be  happy  ! 
Do  you  doubt  the  way?  Epicurus  will  be  your  guide. 
The  source  of  every  enjoyment  is  within  yourselves. 
Good  and  evil  lie  before  you.  The  good  is— all  which 
can  yield  you  pleasure  :  The  evil — what  must  bring  you 
pain.  Here  is  no  paradox,  no  dark  saying,  no  moral 
hid  in  fables. 


H  JFew  H)aps  in  Htbens* 


159 


‘‘ We  have  considered  the  unsound  fabric  of  religion. 
It  remains  to  consider  that,  equally  unsound,  of  morals. 
The  virtue  of  man  is  as  false  as  his  faith.  What  folly 
invented,  knavery  supports.  I^et  us  arise  in  our  strength, 
examine,  judge,  and  be  free  !’’ 

The  teacher  here  pansed.  The  crowd  stood,  as  if  yet 
listening : — “At  a  convenient  season,  my  children,  we 
will  examine  farther  into  the  nature  of  man,  and  the 
science  of  life.” 


THE  END. 


